


Hero

by lalalive



Series: Hero [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Drug Dealing, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Guns, Kidnapping, Knives, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-10-25 22:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10773990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalive/pseuds/lalalive
Summary: Park Chanyeol, the sire of one of the largest and most powerful covens, and a human woman find themselves forced to trust one another as they attempt to strategize, and survive, an impending outbreak of war.





	1. Prologue

The blood would stain his shirt. 

Chanyeol regards his sleeve with mild annoyance as he steps back from his captive. The mess of the living-dead thing in the chair before him would leave a permanent blemish, even after the life had long faded from its eyes and its flesh had started to decay. In truth, his knuckles are soaked with sweat and blood, and a chafe is beginning to form from the force of his punches. These will heal. He is not concerned. His sleeve, however, now soiled with bodily fluids would be a lost cause. _Unfortunate,_ he thinks, _it was new._

When the howling has ceased its echoes along the armory’s walls, and Jun-Yeon’s dry heaving has subsided to merely a disgusted whimper, Chanyeol can hear it is raining. The drops fall in a gentle, somewhat soothing pattern along the tin roof and, for a brief moment, he feels as though he is about to eclipse paradise. The air is saturated with the scent of iron, so full and heavy he fancies himself drunk. Running his tongue across his lips, he attempts to osmose the flavor from the air and feels his senses start to tingle. 

Eyes closed, he stretches the fingers of his sore hand and revels in the sensation of the joints cracking before regarding his captive with a cold stare. 

‘Your loyalty is admirable,’ he says evenly, before coming to lean directly in Jun-Yeon’s face. ‘But understand I am fully prepared to take your fangs and hang you on my wall to watch you rot from thirst if you don’t tell me when the halfling was created.’ 

Bruises splashed across Jun-Yeon’s chin and cheekbones, not yet on their way to healing, make it difficult for him to speak. His swollen lip, cracked and dripping blood into a thick pool in his lap, makes him look bloated and pathetic. Had he been human, Chanyeol perhaps would find it in himself to take pity on him or perhaps call the interrogation off for another day to allow him to heal. Instead, he’s irritated and impatient, bullet holes and knife wounds in place of empathy. 

‘Your silence gives more away than you think, boy,’ Chanyeol hisses, balling the man’s hair into his fist and forcing his head back to look him in the eyes. ‘I fear the weight of implication might crush you.’

‘I have lived for over eight centuries,’ Jun-Yeon mutters, the words coming out in a rasp as they rattle his chest. 

‘Like I said. A boy.’ 

A smile creeps across Chanyeol’s face as he releases Jun-Yeon’s head. How could it not, when confronted with such innocence? As if eight hundred years was more than a blink of an eye. He almost feels old in front of such a shiny, new toy. 

‘Eat shit,’ Jun-Yeon grinds out between grit teeth.

‘Good!’ Chanyeol exclaims, pulling out a hunting knife clipped to the back of his belt. ‘I love it when they get sassy, don’t you?’ he casually remarks to his assistants, who merely grunt in response. ‘Always makes it so exciting and unpredictable.’ 

He shows the knife to Jun-Yeon, it’s long silver blade glimmering under the flourescent light. Twirling it in his hands, he studies his captive with a quizzical brow. How easy it had been to capture him, a man regarded as a coven general, a second in command. How stoic he had remained throughout his interrogation, even when the loss of his fangs had been threatened. Jun-Yeon is prepared and ready to die or live, or even merely survive regardless of the damage to his body. And while to the untrained eye these may be the traits of a seasoned warrior, Chanyeol has lived long enough and seen enough war to know when something is a set up. He’s killed men, and women, and soldiers, and no one, not even the gods he no longer believe exist, is ever prepared to die or above begging, even if it is expressed as a hollow “please.”

‘This knife has been soaked in holy water,’ he explains. ‘For every lie you tell me, this knife will be thrust into your skin to match the lie’s depth and dragged for the length of time you sustain it. Understood?’

Jun-Yeon raises his head high and scoffs. ‘Stab wounds don’t intimidate me.’ 

‘Brave,’ Chanyeol chuckles. ‘Stupid, but brave. I can see why Jimin likes you.’

He pulls back from the chair and walks towards the table, crates of ammo stacked high on its top, casually leaning against it as he absentmindedly continues to twirl the knife. It’s been hours of this, an empty back forth dialogue of violence and silence and his skin is starting to feel damp with the effort. Only now has he begun to realize his clothes are feeling restrictive, clinging to him like a passionate lover with every punch thrown. He isn’t tired, just bored, having graduated from petty interrogation long before he became sire of the coven.

‘Let’s review,’ he says in a slow drawl. ‘Our covens had a deal. Blood for yours, money for mine, and a warm sense of unity and alliance for both. Isn’t this what humans call a win-win?’ 

Jun-Yeon remains silent.

‘Ah,’ Chanyeol says, placing a hand over his ear as if unable to hear an answer that wasn’t given. ‘What was that? I can’t hear you.’

‘I know the terms of the deal,’ Jun-Yeon coughs, blood escaping from his mouth in a spray.

‘Of course you do,’ Chanyeol states plainly, pushing himself from the table. He places his mouth next to Jun-Yeon’s ear and growls. ‘So tell me why a halfling was seen near my coven’s perimeter not twenty-four hours before the deal was to be settled. And tread lightly. We have evidence to prove she was here.’

Delicately, he runs the knife across Jun-Yeon’s jaw and down the tendon of his stretched neck. Had he not been radiating in a state of rage, he likely would have smiled at the sound of the man’s tepid whimper.

‘Was she turned before I signed my name in my own blood?’ he whispers, continuing to pull the knife down Jun-Yeon’s chest until it rests just over his sternum. ‘Or was it a blatant act of war?’

There’s a brief pause between Chanyeol’s question and Jun-Yeon’s answer. At such proximity, Chanyeol can hear the labored stagger of his breathing and even the slow, stagnant flow of his blood as it stubbornly refrains from congealing in his veins. 

‘I know nothing of a halfling,’ Jun-Yeon wheezes quietly.

‘Wrong answer.’

With one smooth thrust, he forces the knife to its hilt in Jun-Yeon’s chest. The sound of his screams cause Chanyeol’s ears to ring, and the smell of burning flesh consumes the room.

‘Your skin reeks of deceit,’ Chanyeol shouts. ‘Tell me again!’

No answer, merely an agonized whine as the knife continues to separate bone and muscle.

‘Where is she? Who made her?’ Chanyeol presses, guiding the knife downward with only slightly increased speed. 

‘I-I sw-’ Jun-Yeon’s response is cut off by his body being propelled forward, vomiting blood and bile onto Chanyeol’s shoes. 

Chanyeol releases his hold on the knife and steps back, scowling. ‘Those were a gift.’ 

The door to the armory opens with an unprecedented state of urgency, and Chanyeol finds himself glaring at his second in command, Jongdae. He stands back lit by of a flood of light from the hallway and his slight frame suddenly looks more impressive than it ever has before. 

‘This better be important,’ Chanyeol snaps. 

‘There’s been a problem,’ Jongdae states plainly. ‘The deal has been compromised.’

It takes every ounce of control in Chanyeol’s being not to burn the world. He glances back to the simpering mess of a vampire bound tightly to a chair in the center of the room, half expecting him to smile, half expecting him to free himself and pull the knife out of his chest with pride, saying _“we did it, this is the start of your undoing.”_ He merely sits there, retching and gagging, as if forcing himself to heal with a knife still buried between his lungs. 

‘Halfling?’ Chanyeol barks, at no one in particular.

‘Human,’ Jongdae says, and this makes Chanyeol’s head turn with such force he’s sure he’s given himself whiplash.

They regard each other for a long moment, a whole conversation passing between their eyes, and they know. _War is coming. The end is coming. There is nothing we can do._

Chanyeol decides to fix what he can, to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible. _The world will know too much and we will all dissolve before hell can welcome us home._

‘Sehun,’ Chanyeol says, remarkably calm.

‘Sire.’

‘Take his fangs. Pliers are on the table.’

With that, Chanyeol stalks out of the room and into the hall, Jongdae hot on his heels and Jun-Yeon’s shrieks following close behind.


	2. Chapter 2

When you open your eyes, you’re consumed by darkness. Impenetrable, complete darkness so warm and heavy for a moment you’re sure you’ve gone blind. 

Blink once. Blink twice. 

There’s no light here, but you’re living. Hyperaware and waiting for your eyes to adjust, you take a minute to luxuriate in the act of breathing. You are breathing. 

Correction: you are hyperventilating. 

You’ve been buried alive. 

It takes all your effort to focus on controlling your breath through the headache promising to prise your skull apart, rhythmically throbbing at the back of your head. _Calm down,_ you think, _don’t use all the oxygen here in one go._

A dull, even hum floats through rush of blood and ringing in your ears, and you recognize the sounds of an engine. 

Not dead, not buried. The trunk of a car. 

_There’s hope._

The trunk is not airtight. The only thing that will kill you now is time, heat, or yourself. _You have twelve hours, at most._

Every car has a safety latch for this exact purpose. You remember this from your self defense classes. It’s more than likely this feature has been removed. As a national regulation and no secret, it’s the first thing ripped from any get-away car. But if your captors started their day _not_ expecting to abscond with an adult woman, if this was unplanned, accidental, and _messy,_ it’s still possible there’s an escape plan that doesn’t involve strategizing. You’re acutely aware the car is moving, your body gently jostling over each bump in the road, but adrenaline has been responsible for its fair share of miracles and road rash seems more appealing than the virtue of patience. 

Through the haze of your senses, you assess the state of your body before scouring the trunk. Stifling moans and keeping as quiet as possible, you focus one by one on your limbs - formulating the most basic of checklists. You don’t expect to be in perfect condition, if you’re being honest you feel as though you’ve fought a war and have only just survived but, you need to make sure nothing is already broken. 

Stifling a groan, you move your neck and hear it crack. Who knows how long you’ve been unconscious and in this position, but the soreness goes beyond tension, the sharp sting of whiplash lingering throughout the base of your shoulders. Your arms are aching and bound behind your back, and only now do you realize you’re on your side. Bent into positions threatening dislocation, your wrists feel as though they’ve been sprained and your fingers, scratching desperately at a knot that feels too complex to be invented by man, are trembling. 

By contrast, your mouth and your legs are not bound and, while you imagine these things should provide a sense of relief, a faint memory arrives in a blur at the front of your consciousness. There are no details, just smears of sensations and fear, and you slowly accept that these revelations are not things to be celebrated. There is a reason these pieces of you are not bound, like they have been deemed vulnerable or their strength underestimated. It’s because they don’t matter. If you run, you will be caught, and if you scream, no one will hear you. 

As if protesting it's small energy reserve being used so fruitlessly, your body attempts to cave in on itself as you feel the bile rise from your stomach. Curling your back with such force you fear your muscles may tear, you’re struck by how lucky it is you’re already on your side as you vomit violently, though there’s little to show for it. You don’t remember the last time you’ve eaten and you are positive you’re dehydrated; possibly concussed given the strength of your headache and vomiting spell. Struggling awkwardly to turn onto your other side, scooting away from the foul liquid, you fight past the roar in your head and the whimper building in your chest to remember how exactly you got here. 

~~~~~~~

_Su-Jin was ill, complaining of an aggressive cough and a fever. At least, this is what his replacement told you as he handed you a clipboard detailing the day’s deliveries, inventories, and locations. You’d never seen this person before, and he told you he was new._

_‘First day on the job. Mind if I drive? Want to get used to handling the truck.’_

_He smiled at you, though for some reason you didn’t think it was genuine. Rather, it felt like an awkward, forced attempt at standard social practices in an effort to placate your nerves. Dressed in all black, looking severe with a strong brow and dark eyes, his smile seemed extraordinarily out of place and unpracticed. Nonetheless, you nodded with a smile of your own and tried to quell the unease that had started to spread through your nerves._

_He introduced himself as D.O., and you were struck by how odd it was he should provide you a nickname within minutes of making your acquaintance. Sliding into the passenger seat, you prepared several quips regarding his name - what secrets are you keeping, were your parents cruel, don’t be ashamed we’re all adults here - hoping your day together could be easy and comfortable. But the look on his face told you this conversation had died before he’d even opened his mouth to speak and, as he looked everywhere but in your direction, you got the sense he wasn’t the joking type._

_Sitting in such close proximity made the air feel thick, like you could choke on it the instant you said something he didn't want to discuss. But you swallowed, the air and your pride, as you glanced down to the orders for the day and put the addresses in the GPS._

_‘Looks like first delivery is MACPS Labs, about fifty miles south of here. If traffic is good on the highway, we should make it in about an hour,’ you said gently._

_You cast a brief glance at him, and he hummed in acknowledgement, jaw set and clenched, eyes trained on the road. You decided to read out the order, if only to fill the silence._

_‘Forty crates of whole and cord blood, thirty crates of donor A, B, O, thirty of donor AB neg-’ you stopped reading the list out loud as you scanned the rest of the page. ‘This is a significant amount of blood,’ you muttered to yourself. The flow for the day detailed at least six other orders, but the sheer amount of this would force you back to the depot to reload the truck before you could carry on._

_A slight panic rose in your chest and you reached for your phone to check the news. This kind of order comes with disaster relief. This kind of order comes straight from hospitals as they cripple beneath unexpected and unprecedented demand. This kind of order saves lives in mass casualty events._

_Your feed told you the world is quiet. Today, there was only the silent acknowledgement that the world was at war with itself._

_‘I know,’ he said quietly._

_His effort at conversation caught you by surprise and you thought it was nice he was trying, that maybe you had him pegged wrong. He was new, you were still a stranger to him, and transporting possibly pathogenic materials would make anyone nervous._

_‘Before you got in I checked the order and thought the world was ending. An almost comical amount of blood, right?’_

_‘I wonder what they're doing with it.’ You allowed yourself to study his profile, eyeing the almost Roman curve of his nose and the arch of his lips. He looked regal. He looked powerful. He made you feel so incredibly_ young. _You didn’t want to say subservient, but if asked to define the feeling you would have used the word._

_‘Maybe they found a cure.’_

_‘For what?’_

_‘Everything.’_

_He said the word with such conviction you thought he knew something you didn't, that he'd seen and endured so much it was only logical to conclude_ living _was the only epidemic in need of a cure. For a moment you expected a philosophical debate, a no exit scenario about life and death and the sameness of humanity, but before you could respond, he started to laugh. It wasn’t someone laughing at their own joke, it wasn’t even pleasant, it was bitter and it was angry._

_The drive was silent after that, filled with anxious glances between your hands, the road, and his face. He never once brought his attention to you, even as you stared. You told yourself to stop, that it was rude, that you'd memorized the details of his jawline so clearly you could paint it, but you were_ waiting. _To you he appeared dangerous, volatile and unpredictable - perhaps that's what made you so wary. There was no way to calculate his actions because he operated beyond your frame of reference; he’d swallowed the sun and at any moment could burn you alive._

_Humanity routinely silences its instincts, the one thing given to every living organism. Nature has gifted itself a superpower, an inherent trust in the energy of all things and circumstances, and humans, as brilliant and magnificent as they are, have continuously neglected or ignored this tether to the universe. This has been done in favor of free will - as if it has nothing to do with instinct at all. Instinct and choice are the things humanity repeatedly struggle with, even more so than with each other._

_Instinct and choice have been your greatest companions. Instinct was what made your distrust of D.O. settle and take root in the center your chest, spreading like spores until your mind made the choice to watch, and wait, and fight._

_Instinct is what made you panic when he pulled off the highway saying he knew a shortcut. Instinct is what made your palms sweat as you watched the arrival time on the GPS steadily increase until you knew for certain this route would never be completed. Instinct is was told you to run the second you had the chance, told you the black cars gathered by an abandoned warehouse were waiting for you. Instinct is what told you_ this place means death. 

_Choice is what told you fight. Choice is what told you to push as hard as you could on D.O.'s right leg, forcing him to press the gas as he approached the cars. Choice is what told you to use your other hand to unbuckle his seatbelt. Choice is what told you to pray, even though you’d never been the religious type._

_The truck barreled through the cars, metal and glass yawning around you at a thunderous volume. You felt yourself bleed. You felt yourself scream. The truck careened onto its side and it took you a moment to realize that you hadn't died._

_It took you a moment to realize neither had D.O._

_Your ears were ringing and burning with the heat of our own blood as you tried to gather your senses. Above you, thanks to the truck’s new angle, D.O. sat angrily tearing the deployed airbag with his fingers like claws. This wasn’t a movie. You truly didn’t think you could save the day or your even own life, but you knew physics, you knew the laws of motion, and D.O. had defied them all._

_He’d anticipated your movements and tried to correct the truck’s path, turning the steering wheel as hard and as quickly as he could to avoid a head on collision. His wrists were not broken, they didn’t even look swollen or sprained. The force of the wheel jerking through the crash should have caused him severe pain, but he still was able to tear away the airbag and rip the wheel out of the dash to give himself some room._

_This was not the biggest concern you had._

_You’d heard the click of his seat belt releasing. You felt yourself push the latch down - it was the one thing you knew was successful. Even if he could have corrected the path of the truck or stopped it, he still should have been thrown. He should have been ejected. You should have been covered in his brain matter. But he was fine. There wasn’t even a single scratch on him. And he was furious._

_In one swift motion he reached out to you and tore your seatbelt away, hands coming to fist in your hair as he dragged you of the driver window. He was growling with rage and you didn’t think it was possible for a human to make such a sound. You started to shiver. Perhaps this was shock. Perhaps this was a panic attack. Perhaps your soul was beginning to abandon your body in protest of all you put it through._

_Your limbs started to flail frantically behind you when you were planted on your feet, searching for anything on his person to hold as he dragged you away from the wreckage. Attached to his belt you could feel a holster and a gun. You fumbled desperately to grab a hold of it, one hand pushing back against him with all you could muster while the other clumsily grappled with the grip. The moment you had a hold of it, he hit your arm with such force you thought the bone might break and the gun fell from your grasp._

_As you watched its trajectory, you suddenly became aware of your surroundings. You weren’t alone. The black cars, now dented and steaming, were surrounded by men who looked vicious and animalistic. Something had been compromised here. There was no search for casualties, no great concern for their own well-being, just an anger so pure and raw you thought you were being pulled through the gates of hell._

_Instinct told you to run, to fight your way free. Choice told you to thrust forward, ripping the hair in his fist from your skull as you lurched out of D.O.’s grasp. You bit your lip to stifle a howl of pain, refusing to grant him the sound. You would never give him the pleasure of hearing you suffer._

_He was infinitely stronger than you, something you’d underestimated given his small frame. Hand to hand combat would be impossible. You were surrounded. The only hope was to get to the gun._

_As you stumbled toward you found yourself slipping, feet struggling for purchase on the slick ground. You fell onto your hands and knees, continuing to quickly crawl to the gun until it was held tightly in your hands._

_You hands. Covered in blood, coated and stained._

_The truck. Leaking blood as if the metal were bleeding, hemorrhaging behind you and into the street._

_This is what had been compromised. The blood was meant to be delivered, but never to a lab. This was trafficking. This was gang activity. Blood money. You’d interrupted a deal and you’d likely have to pay with your own._

_D.O. approached you with a smile on his face, almost teasing you and letting you know he was enjoying this. To him, this was fun. To him, you were exciting and_ new. _You’d never seen anyone or anything so threatening in your life or so beautiful. You were glad he’d never looked at you in the truck or in such close quarters. His eyes made you feel vulnerable and naked, and you felt ashamed of your skin as his gaze traveled from your face to your chest, like he could hear your racing heart, and then to your hands._

_You wanted him to stop. You wanted this to stop._

_You’d only meant to fire one round. It didn’t matter that you were grossly unprepared for everything pertaining to a gun, you thought one squeeze of the trigger would be enough. How could you ever have known you were holding an automatic Glock 17? How could you ever have known the kickback and the sudden rise in your arms would send you falling backwards? No one had prepared for you these things._

_And no one had prepared you for how incredibly loud the gun was without protection and at close range._

_You knew your aim was off and wrong, your hold of the gun inexperienced and admittedly dangerous. You’d missed your imagined target completely and had resulted in nothing but causing the world around you to fall silent. You’d succeeded at nothing but deafening yourself and those around you._

_While you hadn’t really expected to hit anything, never really even planned to cause anyone harm, you merely wanted to fire off warning shot. Thought you could startle the world into action around you and that, if you couldn’t save yourself, at least the sound of a gun firing and people screaming would alert others to the area. But these were professionals, and you felt your mind ache with knowledge that no one would save you as you watched everyone revert to hand signals._

_Wordless conversations were happening around you and, as you brought yourself to your knees, D.O. stood before you, glowering and looking ready break you apart with his bare hands. He made it a point to look you directly in the eyes, commanding your attention as he picked up the gun you’d carelessly dropped from surprise._

_As he brought his face close to yours, you thought about spitting on him. You thought about screaming. You thought about clawing at his face until it was nothing but blood and dirt under your nails._

_You did none of these things, and instead remained quiet and stoic as he mouthed, slowly and clearly,_

‘No one likes a hero.’

_With a swing of his arm bordering on graceful, he raised his hand holding the gun and brought it to your temple, pistol whipping you into the comforting hold of darkness._

~~~~~~~

The sudden onslaught of memory makes you release a choked gasp from your sore throat. You find yourself drowning in the realization of your circumstances, the gravity of the situation coming to crush your chest without remorse. You choke back a howl of distress and suddenly your mental checklist of wellness reaches a new low. 

You’re covered in blood and you can feel it now, dried and caked on your arms, legs, and hands. If you could, you’d skin yourself just to peel it off and cleanse yourself of it. Never before have you considered yourself an innocent thing. You’ve seen images of war and you’ve witnessed death firsthand, but now your mind is wandering into the dark realms of possibility and all at once you feel fragile. As if now, after everything you’ve seen and survived, you’re a delicate thing that’s too pure for all this chaos.

Reminding yourself to breathe, you allow the cold chill of reality to slowly creep back into your senses. 

The car is stopped and you don’t know how long it’s been idle, but you can hear voices. They’re low, deep, and mumbled, no discernible words in their sentences just grumbles of implication. The garbled tones make your skin crawl, hungry for a natural conversational cadence. As they come closer, though, you can make out the distinct pitch of two speakers until you’re sure they’re standing directly above the trunk. 

‘How much was salvaged?’

‘Less than a third. Sire, they aren’t keen to renegotiate.’

‘Of course they aren’t. Did they take any of it?’

Silence. 

‘You brought her here?’

‘Had to. She knows too much.’

‘We don’t deal in human trafficking, Kyungsoo. Not anymore.’ 

_Anymore._

You hear the latch for the trunk get released and you turn your head to look them in the eye. Mouth shut, you eye them with as much vengeful conviction you can manage and watch their nostrils flare. Your gaze is drawn to the man in the center, the one who seems to command the room just with his very posture. He seems bored and put out by your presence, but the corner of his mouth curls into a faint smile before he speaks.

‘Leave her with the pigs.’

He turns and walks away, and you’re lifted from the trunk as if you’re weightless. Arms held in a firm grip by two men who seem too young to be caught up in what you assume is the mob, you look D.O. directly in the eye as you’re lead away. You will not cower from anyone’s gaze. 

When you’re tossed into a cage filled with pigs and goats, you immediately turn to face the men who brought you there. 

You’ll stare every single person down, fixating on their eyes even it means they have to watch the life fade from yours.


	3. 2

The goats seem content to lick the blood from your legs, their tongues sporadically forcing the shards of glass, still speckling the skin beneath your ripped pants, further into their wounds. You don’t mind the sting, you welcome it as a tether; it reminds you you’re still alive. The pigs, you find, keep to themselves as if they're used to women invading their space and have long accepted the transience of humanity; they exist next to you, but not with you. 

Time passes in indeterminate increments. There are no windows in this room, no visual for the passing of the hours; you wonder how long it's been since you've seen the sun. Occasionally, when the chatter and rubber clad footsteps beyond the door quiet, you hear the hungry call of gulls as they pass overhead. You know you are near the sea, you know that the sea is _miles_ out from where you were, and you have no idea where you'd run even if you could.

This lack of natural light and the warmth from the animals frequently lulls you into a state of exhaustion, from which you retreat in a distressed haste. Your head still hurts, and while this pain could be attributed to a number of things - hunger, dehydration, stress, _fear_ \- the possibility of concussion still remains real. 

So, you focus on the smell, the putrescence that emanates from your cellmates. You focus on the details of the room, few as they may be, and you focus on your racing heart. Closing your eyes and relaxing into captivity means death. So you choose to stay wide awake and aware, breathing in every piece of this hell until you become one with it. 

The cage, your cell, this small prison, sits in the center of an otherwise empty room. Apart from your companions, you are alone and the only time someone capable of conversation enters is to bring a bucket of slop for the animals. They avoid your gaze and, while you initially felt the beginnings of a white hot rage spawn in your chest at their indifference, you have redirected your attention to the metal door that separates you from the hope of freedom. 

Between the distance of the cage from the door and the pain in your head, focusing on finite details takes time and a considerable amount of effort. You devote most of your energy to trying to study the door’s lock. You’re certain you could pick the cage bolt with the pin that keeps your name tag pinned to your shirt, but the door - its mechanics remain a mystery.

You doubt they have been careless, you doubt they have overlooked your desire for freedom, and you are certainly wise enough to know that if something appears easy it's likely impossible. 

You mentally prepare yourself for these challenges by imagining what lies beyond the door, and manage to convince yourself you're formulating a plan. No information has been offered to you from the light beyond the frame, but you think of the building as a warehouse - similar to the one D.O. brought you to. The building is unfamiliar and large, and you weren't astute enough to memorize the path taken from the trunk of the car to the room. 

You question where you'd go if you could escape, what choices would you make beyond room’s walls. Sometimes you think you’d turn left, but right now you picture going right. You imagine cold steel hallways and numerous doors for you to pass - sometimes you think you'd try them, other times you think you'd run until you found the best exit possible. 

Would you climb out a window? Would you run for the door? Would you look for a car? You find yourself weighing the value of your life against the risks and conclude the summation of your existence would be meaningless if you didn't at least try all these options in succession. 

Logically, you know you'd be caught - but if you weren’t, if you allow yourself the fantasy of escape, what would you do? How would you do it? 

The truth is you've been listening, and while there isn't a pattern to the noise, you've learned the doppler effect of the footsteps and think maybe you could time it. If you can manage to get your hands free, the first of many obstacles, if you can manage to get out of the cage and to the door, you'd do it when there's silence. 

Living in perpetual dimness has taught you to follow the noise, and you think you'd lean against the wall waiting for an echo or a vibration. You'd follow it with shaking hands and eyes wide open, blind to everything except instinct. You trust yourself enough to know you'd live long enough to fight, even if you don't live. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open, and you quickly turn your head away to face the wall. You don't bother getting up, not anymore, you simply rest your head back against the bars and wait. The lights on the ceiling are flicked on and you groan, squinting as your eyes adjust. 

Today, there are two people assigned to the feed instead of the usual one and this other man is new to you. As he crosses into your vision, you look him directly in the eye - as you've done to everyone you've seen - and he smiles. 

This simple action makes your breath catch and you're shaken by this disruption. To everyone you've been invisible, equated verbally to swine, but he willingly acknowledges you with kindness. His smile is warm and almost sympathetic, and you fight against your inherent distrust with a visual restlessness. You find you have no venom for him, only a reserved patience as you watch his actions and posture. 

His partner drops the bucket of gruel with little ceremony and pays you no regard as he blithely moves towards the door, leaving without a single word.

Now it's just you and this new man, and he's radiating peace as if it's born through the pores of his skin. You want to panic. They never stay behind. No one waits or sits with you, and so his very presence should consume you with unease. Instead, you find yourself wanting to return his smile and, for just this moment, you have the passing sense you could be safe. 

He moves towards the door of the cage, slowly and calmly walking around the perimeter as if you're the dangerous one. You keep your gaze trained on him the whole time, and only now do you notice he's carrying a glass of clear liquid. When he comes to the front of the cage, he sits with his legs crossed and fixes you with a concerned stare. 

‘My name is Lay,’ he says softly. ‘I’m here to heal you.’

You narrow your eyes, confused about how this is possible. He has no medical kit with him, not even a rag to clean the dried blood on your skin, but still you believe him. Perhaps your belief is what you find most perplexing of all.

The harsh light from the lamps seems to bathe him in a warm glow, as if the light itself were seeking him out to nestle in the grooves of his cheekbones. You want to call him Icarus, you want to give him wings, and you imagine that he already does. It's this image of him that helps your muscles relax, the cadence of his words dissolving your tension on impact. 

Instinct. 

‘Before I can do that,’ he continues, ‘I’d like to talk to you. I also want to give you this water, but to do that I need to be in there with you.’ He nods his head towards the interior of the cage and you bristle at the gesture. 

Hands have held and grabbed you, pulled at your skin and hair and bound together all the useful things about you just because they were close to you. They were close and they _could._

The nearness of him poses a threat and he seems to sense this. 

‘I promise I will bring you no harm. I will _never_ raise a hand to hurt you. You will be safe with me,’ he says and, for some unknown reason, you find truth in this statement. 

‘May I have your permission to enter?’ He asks the question delicately, worry painted over his features in expectation of rejection. And his worry is not for himself, but for you. 

A great ocean wave of comfort passes over your soul, as if he's found his way inside you, clung to your rib cage and started to illuminate all the darkness. And you think you feel this not just because he's asked for your permission, waiting for your consent like you're the key to the cage itself, but because he genuinely wants it. 

So you nod, placing the last threads of trust you have, not in his hands but, in your gut. 

He opens the cage door and enters quickly, moving the animals aside with a gentleness you thought had died within the confines of the building as he shuts it and comes to sit beside you. You regard him for a moment and are awash with warmth, soothed by his closeness. 

His eyes veer to the tag on your chest, and he brightens somewhat at seeing your name. 

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he says, returning his gaze to yours. ‘I've brought you a gift.’

Lifting the glass, his left hand slithers behind your head to cradle it as he brings the glass to your lips. The water seems to spread through your bones, cooling and saturating all withered places in you. You'd been parched and the flash flood of this glass will only leave you craving more. He makes to pull away, but you lean forward with your lips still pressed to the rim refusing to let go until you've had every last drop. He releases a chuckle at this, and you sigh. There's music in his laugh, a lullaby of consolation and ease. 

When you’ve drunk your fill, he removes his hand allowing you to lean back against the bar once more as you gasp for breath. You let some drops of water linger on your lips, moistening the skin allowing you to feel more hydrated than you actually are. 

‘I’ll bring you more water and a warm meal,’ he says, placing the glass next to him. He shoos an inquisitive pig away with the flick of his hand. 

The deluge of water has coated your throat, found your voice somewhere in its tides and brought it back to you. 

‘How long have I been here?’ you ask with a croak in your disused voice. You've grown comfortable with silence, and speech feels like a skill you need to relearn. 

He turns back to you and offers you a sympathetic frown. ‘Two days.’

Suppressing a scoff, you scowl. They've brought you to the edge only to pull you back. 

‘You’re not like the others,’ you cough. 

‘I’m exactly like the others,’ he counters. ‘I just respond differently to…’

You cock an eyebrow and wait for him to finish. 

‘Challenges.’

You roll your eyes with disdain. ‘I refuse to let you reduce me to one simple and dismissive word,’ you say sharply. ‘I and this entire fucked up situation are so much more than that.’ You pause to cough once more, your chest constricting roughly with each breath. ‘But my fighting words are not meant for you. You're the only person who has shown me kindness.’

‘Kindness exists in unseen places. Had it not been for the Sire’s kindness, I’d not be here.’

‘That hardly counts,’ you say, scowling. ‘If that were true, why isn't he here himself?’

‘You have many questions -’

‘Damn right I do,’ you interject. 

He lifts his hand to stop your verbal tirade. ‘But we have more urgent matters to discuss.’ 

He takes a small breath while you absorb his words and you debate if you want to even listen at all. He takes your silence as complacency and continues. 

‘I'm going to tell you something and your response to, and belief in, this information is fundamental, not only to your understanding of who we are, but also my ability to heal you.’

‘This sounds like a bargaining chip.’

‘In a way, yes,’ he concedes, ‘but by telling you this it will no longer be just you who feels vulnerable in this cage.’

‘I already know what you are,’ you say sharply. You’re sure you have him and everyone around you figured out. You’d rather save the pomp and circumstance and get right to the mending of bones. 

‘You do?’ he asks, bemused. 

‘Blood and human trafficking? You're the mob, or at least involved with it.’

He chuckles, although it lacks its usual ring. It comes from a place of sadness, somewhere deep within him. ‘We are far older and conversely far weaker than that. The mafia operates out of greed, we operate this way out of necessity.’

‘I think if you ask any gang member they'd say the same thing,’ you challenge. 

‘Semantics are nothing without context. Before I tell you the rest, I beg you to keep in mind you are allowed this information because Sire wishes you to have it. We are not usually this forthcoming.’

‘Is this a test?’

‘Perhaps. If so, it is not for me, therefore it is up to you to judge it as you will.’

‘Okay. Tell me.’

‘We are not the mob,’ he says evenly. ‘This is a coven. And we are vampires.’ He says the words so calmly and gently it takes you a moment to register he's waiting for your reaction. 

You let the words wash over you and find yourself laughing, a cold, unfeeling laugh that sounds like metal as it rattles out of your chest. You think perhaps your state of shock and trauma has caused something to snap inside you, but you don't feel any mental detachment. Everything about this feels real and tangible, and you just accept his words as law because your perception of reality has already been forced into an unrecognizable shape. Why not bend it to its limit?

‘You laugh. Do you not feel fear?’ he asks, confused. 

‘I'm scared,’ you say, your last chuckle tumbling past your chapped lips. ‘Trust me you cannot begin to fathom how truly terrified I am. But every second I'm kept here, my sliding scale for what makes me feel fear grows to new lengths.’ 

In truth, you think you've been so scared for so long that you've grown numb to the feeling. It has burrowed into your skin and made a home of you, made itself so comfortable on and inside you that all you have left is the grim acknowledgment of its presence. 

‘I’m laughing because what you’re saying is utterly preposterous,’ you continue. ‘I'm laughing because, against my better judgment, I believe you. I'm laughing because in a way, I already knew. And I’m laughing because I can't believe I just have to accept this is the world I live in now.’ 

The last part of your explanation comes out deeply sad and forlorn, because that is all you have left. You’ve known for a long time the world was little more than bleak, but now you’re confronted with legend and myth and all that remains in you is a derisive _why not._

‘Well, this is the world you always lived in. You’ve just been welcomed into the shadows of it,’ he says, his eyes glancing around the room as if the darkness here were the shadows he meant. For a vampire, you find him impossibly docile. ‘But you say you already knew?’

‘I knew something wrong when that guy - D.O. - didn't die.’ You tremble at the memory, haunted. ‘I was bleeding and disoriented and he just carried on like nothing had happened. I shot a gun at close range and he didn't even flinch, but I felt like a bomb had gone off in my head. But even before all that? I knew from the blood.’

‘The blood,’ he repeats, knowingly. 

‘You were shipping blood like you were bringing it to a war zone.’

‘I can see why you made D.O. so nervous,’ he says with a smile. ‘Your observance is unprecedented for your kind.’

‘It was literally crates of blood. You were hardly discreet,’ you say, dryly. 

He simply nods and lets silence hang over you. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for a stronger reaction, a howl or a cry. You’re almost sorry to disappoint him. 

‘So do you trust me?’ he finally asks. 

‘I believe you’ you clarify, ‘I don't know if I trust you. I've seen proof there's something not completely human about this whole...thing. Yet, you keep saying you're going to heal me but you have nothing with you.’

‘Tell me what you think I would need,’ he says, a coy smile tugging at his lips. 

You run through your last known checklist. ‘Well, it feels like I have a minor concussion. My legs have flesh wounds but the goats have been licking those so possible bacteria infections and also glass shards buried under the cuts. My wrists feel sprained, though I have very minimal feeling in my hands so I can't confirm the extent of the problem there. This is just external, I have no way to assess internal if any.’

‘What if I told you I only needed my hands?’

‘I think this would go back to my sliding scale.’

‘We were all humans once,’ he says, loftily. ‘The universe gifts pieces of herself to humanity, the same way many believe God created man in his image. Humans sometimes call it magic, as if the concept of this is foreign. Really, we are all capable of extraordinary things.’ 

The words pour from his mouth with a gentle sort of distance, as if his mind has wandered off somewhere and only now is he seeking to find it. The dreamy air in his voice, the wistful contemplation of his words, sends you on your own memory walk, and you arrive at a pleasant, similar state. 

‘My mother said we were all made of stardust.’ You hadn't meant for the words to sound sad but they linger in the air too long, their weight making them heavy and thick. 

‘She sounds like a very wise woman,’ he offers. ‘Sometimes, it's easier to accept these pieces of ourselves after our humanity is stripped. As vampires, or creatures of myth, we have no choice but to accept that we are exactly what we are.’

You find this conversation pleasant and distracting, but are lost as to how this involves you and the blood you've lost. ‘Sorry, I’m struggling to understand what this has to do with healing me?’

‘As vampires, our human gifts makes themselves known to us in a...profound way. We each have a useful skill set. Mine is healing.’

He lifts the hand that cradled your head, palm facing upwards, and you regard it with mild curiosity. His fingers are long and delicate, a softness to them you wouldn't expect to see on a killer. However, nothing about him has met your expectations. When his palm starts to emit a tepid glow, you don't find it in you to be shocked. From the start, you felt he had brought the sun with him. It explains why he makes you feel so warm.

‘Baekhyun is the real light bringer,’ he murmurs to no one but himself. You remove your eyes from his hand and instead watch him as he regards his own light. His small smile makes him appear more childlike and innocent than you could ever imagine from a grown man, and you're overcome by a sort of affinity for him. 

‘This gift comes with a set of rules, however,’ he says, abruptly closing his hand. ‘For instance, I can only do this with your permission. And second, I have to connect with you for it to work.’

His eyes bore into yours, seeking permission. 

‘Connect?’ 

‘It will feel something like a knock on the door of your consciousness,’ he clarifies. ‘You have to be completely open to me to let me in. It's the only way I can asses the damage to your body and fix it.’

You think you understand, but you've never been very good at theory. 

‘May I touch you?’ he asks finally. 

You truly believe he won't cause you any harm, he’s had every opportunity to do so in such close quarters. Everything about him could rip you apart and bleed you out in his lap, but he never once has seemed interested in doing so. He's sat next to your seeping wound, probably smelled it for the last two days, but has remained utterly disinterested in everything about you except for your thoughts. He’s cradled your head like he was leading your baptism, and even then you felt safe in the palms of his hands. But even if you thought him dangerous, even if he kept his violence tucked in his back pocket, he's your only chance for survival. 

‘I don't think I have much of a choice.’

‘There's always a choice.’ He says the words firmly, effectively putting your life in your own hands. 

And so you choose. 

‘You may.’

With a small nod, he brings both hands to your temples to assess your head injury. You take this opportunity to study the warmth in his eyes as he focuses on you, his eyelashes, almost feminine in length, providing a darkness to them that reminds you of chocolate. It's almost painful to look at him, something so pure and beautiful. 

And then you feel it, a scratch in your awareness signaling you aren't alone in your body anymore. He wants in, he wants access to all the pieces you keep tucked away and private. You think this should hurt, you should think this intrusion is impolite and almost cruel. But he told you it would feel like this, an invasion through an open door. He told you it would feel like a door, so you step through. 

_The first time he asked to die, he meant it as a trade. True to his nature, he asked for it with genuine conviction - desperate to die and desperate for his mother to live, and screaming it at the sky. She was soft only for him. He was good only for her, and the worth of his life was meaningless without moments with her to measure it by._

_Her absence hollowed him in a way he didn't think natural. He ate at himself, picking at things she left behind inside of him until he was filled with memory and absolutely nothing else. It was as though he was suffering an intense drought and he allowed himself to dissolve, fading like a sigh beside her grave._

_Empty of all things good and golden, he took to marking his skin to fill himself with ink. He'd stain himself in metaphor, drag lines on his skin and force timelessness where it couldn’t exist before. Sometimes, he convinced himself the wings on his back were hers. Most times, he thought himself the vengeful dragon unable to fly._

_The second time he asked to die, he was on a battlefield. He could smell the blood of his brethren, and the way it mixed with the stench of his own made him want to vomit. His skin was greasy with sweat and human remains, and he couldn’t escape the feeling his body had started to decay before his soul could make its exit. It was impossible for him reconcile the stains on his hands with the words of his orders. He’d lost count of the number of times he'd watched men die, but the agony of it never got easier._

_Death had followed him from a young age and never once cast its pale stare in his direction. He found survival burdensome but he cherished the guilt. It reminded him he was human. It reminded him he still had morals._

You’re pulled back to the present by the sounds of Lay’s gasping. He’s cowered away from you and his eyes are wide with terror. You think he looks as terrified as you feel, and you can’t seem to stop the breakneck pace your heart as decided to take. It’s clear you were never meant to see those things, and you’re scared for him as much as you are scared for yourself. This intimacy was accidental and you both feel tainted.

This is the thing that could kill you, you think. Disobeying orders with a reckless nonchalance is what gets throats slit. Words of apology die on your tongue, everything you could possibly say sounds trite or insincere. Instead, you say his name - his real name.

‘Yixing.’

You thought it would bring him comfort, but instead it stills his breathing and he looks as though he’s seen a ghost.

‘How did you do that?’ he whispers.

‘I’m sorry!’ you exclaim, surprised by the volume of your voice. ‘You said it was a door, I thought I had to do it to make it work!’

You toss your words into the cage, hoping one of them will ease the tension you’ve so carelessly created.

‘No one has ever…,’ his sentence disappears somewhere between his mouth and the air, and he shakes his head to start over. ‘You should be healed. Thank you for letting me in.’

It takes you a second to truly feel yourself, all warm, and whole, and the soul splitting pain your head gone. You want to think him. You want to hug him. But he quickly gets to his feet and leaves the cage. He rushes through his actions as if he’s running from death itself, and he’s out the door before you can even comprehend how just how grave your situation has just become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to everyone who has been reading! It means so much to me, honestly. Thank you so much for joining me on this journey <3  
> PS: hope you love this Yixing as much as I do o.o  
> Song for this chapter: Love Some1 - Holy Other


	4. 3

Once Yixing has left your side, vanishing from the room as though he were merely a phantasm of your mangled imagination, your body starts to remind you how very terrified you are. His presence had acted as a balm, an anesthetic for your frayed nerves. Now, without the soothing abilities of his immortal state, you’re left bereft and grieving the false sense of security he'd wrapped you in. _How very cruel of him,_ you think. _This is what makes him exactly like the others._

Almost as soon as the door is shut behind him, the panicked shivers of your anxiety take hold of your legs and back, a slap in the face of the healing gifted to you so generously. In waves, they rack your body with such aggression you’re sure they’re making up for lost time. Your wrists no longer feel as though they are near their breaking point, but the healed skin has started to chafe all over again as you spasm through your fear.

Perhaps what upsets you the most is the guilt and the consequences that come with your actions. You can't even put words to what you saw or what you've done, but Yixing looked at you like you'd gathered under his skin and defiled all the things he kept sacred. For this, you felt a deep remorse. 

But if you had seen those details of his life, what has he seen of yours? It hardly seemed fair if he got to move freely within you, stroking at all your pieces, while you got none of him in return. Yet this was not a world in which fairness existed. If it did, you would not be here. And so what to you seemed an equal trade of memory and emotion, the reality is that you’d crossed a line and you knew your punishment would be severe - most likely fatal. 

Your rumination on the subject is cut short by the sound of the door swinging open. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been alone, but you can’t imagine it’s been more than an hour. Thinking Yixing is back with more water or even just for conversation, admittedly as foolish as the thought is, you crawl frantically on your knees to the front of the cage to greet him. 

‘Yixing,’ you whisper. ‘Yixing, is that you?’ 

It takes a few blinks for you to notice the figure in the doorway is not Yixing. You’ve seen the posture before, rigid and sharp with edges like knives. You saw it looming over the open trunk, bored and displeased by the very concept of your existence. But now he’s only got eyes for you, staring you down as if he’s got a gun in his back pocket and a bullet for your head. You wish he’d find you invisible again. You almost wish he’d feed on you, just to get it over with. You’re sure that’s where this is going, so you preemptively start to brace yourself. 

Slowly, he enters the room with steps you can only describe as purposeful, the atmosphere seeming to morph and change around him. There’s an exactness to the way he walks, like his body is heavy with precision. He’s tall, far taller than any of the men you’ve seen before, as if his bones grew to match the position he held, towering over the others with a commanding visual. For a moment, he’s backlit and, as you try to squint to see him more clearly, you become distracted by a few things occurring simultaneously. 

First, is that he’s pulling a chair along the floor, a metal chair, and the sound it makes as it scrapes across the concrete echoes loudly around the room. This, you think, is what a death toll sounds like. 

Second, and it is so brief you’re sure if Yixing hadn’t healed you your vision would be too blurred to see it, a body is being dragged swiftly away behind him. You feel slightly nauseated at the sight, and you stop yourself from contemplating if they’re alive or dead, or perhaps neither at all. 

He shuts the door with a loud bang as he reaches to turn the lights on, never once turning his gaze from yours. 

And now you can see him. Strong brow, full lips, deep set eyes. He’s regal and he knows it, skin almost glowing with the awareness. Where light seemed to seek out Yixing, settling on him as if it found a home, this man radiates it like he’s got a molten core. Heat is pouring out of his skin like he’s a volcano unto himself, and the flames lick at the red strands of hair adorning his head. He’s tall and beautiful and absolutely, unrelentingly threatening. 

The only place his light doesn’t seem to reach are his eyes. They’re cold and empty, hollowed so severely you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen something truly dead. Life doesn’t seem to exist there, likely never did, and you wonder what he’s done or seen to make his view on the world so uncompromisingly desolate. 

When he reaches the center of the room, he stops and places the chair in front of him with a harsh clack. He lowers himself onto it with an almost elegant flair, crossing one leg over the other before leaning back with his hands clasped to study you. His unwavering gaze sends a slight chill down your spine, eyes skinning you alive to look straight through at your beating heart. He scrutinizes you, impassive and hard, while you can’t help but focus on his fingers. 

The blood stains on his fingertips, sliding up the digits as though he’s dipped them into paint, have dried to a ruddy shade - almost black - like they’ve been there for days, like they’ve been there always. Images spark in your head, not least of which is the image of those hands wrapped around your neck.

It’s easier than you think it would be, to imagine violence on a man who revels in silk and satin; his three piece suit acting more like a tell for his character than the savagery paraded on his skin. 

‘So,’ he says, breaking your thoughts. His voice is deep and his tone provides no clues to his mood or whim. ‘You’re the hero.’

Briefly you’re reminded of D.O., how he’d called you a hero before pistol whipping you into darkness, and you wonder how much he’s told this man, his sire. You think the word should carry with it some respect, a sense of honor. Instead it’s only ever been spat at you like an insult from condescending mouths, and you bristle at its use. 

‘Mmm,’ he continues, closing his eyes and taking a long, slow inhale. His lips part like he’s engorging himself on the air, and you guess he’s smelling you.

‘You’re filled with so much fight, but your heart is a hummingbird. I can hear it, racing and frail and desperate not to die.’ He opens his eyes once more, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips; you feel completely naked and exposed. 

‘Is that what you’re afraid of? Death?’ 

He says the word like it's a place of safety, like death doesn't hurt or break a person and those around them. Death is fondled in his mouth with a gentleness reserved for kissing, and it almost sounds like it has never carried a threat at all. Perhaps he's right, perhaps death is warm and dark and comforting, that it's _when_ and _how_ that does the damage. 

You imagine dying by his hand. Would it be quick and painless, a death only perceived as tragic only because you're young? You doubt it. You think he'd take his time. Everything about him says he'd luxuriate in the act of killing you, meticulously eviscerating all the soft parts of you. 

‘I promise,’ he says, placidly, ‘no _real_ harm will come to you tonight.’ 

You keep silent, deciding that his definition of “real harm” does not match yours and with such an obvious difference in language it’s best to say nothing at all. 

‘I would like, however, to hear in your own words why you think you're being held here,’ he says, leaning forward. 

There's a momentary skip in your heart rate, a small injection of adrenaline at his words making it stutter. He takes a brief inhale, like he can smell it and hear it and wants to eat it, but still you say nothing. 

After a minute of your silence he cocks his head and speaks for you. 

‘No words, hero? Well, then, let me help you.’

He rises to his feet quickly, the abruptness of his movements sending the chair backwards a few inches and you flinch at the sound. With a casual indifference he begins to pace the room, one of his fingers coming to glide absentmindedly between his lips. Pressing yourself against the cage door, you follow his movements with your eyes. 

‘You have cost me a great deal, not least of which is a high monetary value in the form of blood,’ he says after a few moments, wading through his sentences like he’s negotiating a business contract.

Tilting his head back to the ceiling, he spins on his heels and begins walking in the other direction. ‘Before we get into the details, I’d like to tell you what would have happened to you had you played by the rules.’ 

Languidly, he turns his head in your direction as he walks, glancing over his coulder at you with his full lips set in a pout. Any other man, and you would have thought he was flirting. On him, the expression is almost dangerous.

Once more, he turns and goes back the way he came. With his left index finger, he begins to make swish marks in the air like he’s checking off things on a list. 

‘D.O. would have influenced you, and your day would have felt not unlike a pleasant dream,’ he says, whimsically. ‘You would have gone to work. You’d have played no part in what was happening around you - you wouldn’t even have remembered. You’d have gone home. You would see your family. You would be safe.’ 

He stops speaking and comes quickly, aggressively to the door of the cage leaning down to look you directly in the eyes. You’re so shocked by the action you fall back on your tailbone, feet attempting to push you away. The pigs, startled by your movement, squeal in surprise. 

‘You wouldn’t have started a war,’ he says, and at such proximity his voice seems to vibrate through you. 

The words bounce around the cage, their meaning coming to settle in the pit of your stomach - making you feel ill. Your will to survive has set off a chain of events so far out of your depth you begin to think this is what drowning must feel like. 

‘Now, here is what would have happened to me,’ he growls, eyes narrowing. ‘The territory rights of my coven would have expanded threefold. The perimeter of this coven would be safe. I’d be richer. I’d fucking sleep at night.’ 

The words tumble out of his mouth wet with spit, his lips turning a dull shade of pink as they glisten. Silence befalls you both and for a moment, the only sounds are both of you struggling to catch your breath. 

‘Don’t those realities sound infinitely more pleasant than where we are both currently standing?’ he asks, finally turning from from you to stand. He wipes imaginary dirt off his trousers before folding his hands behind his back and walking along the edge of the cage. 

As if answering a question you didn’t ask, he starts to speak. 

‘We are standing on the precipice of war,’ he announces. ‘And believe me, I understand your instinct to fight - I even admire it. Had you not cost me as much, I imagine I would be impressed.’ 

The reticence in his speech has returned, and you feel as though you’ve been given whiplash. You find him unsettling, his moods shifting from violence to politics though you’ve never really seen the difference between the two. As Yixing said, semantics is nothing without context. 

‘I can understand the urge to fight,’ he says, and you see him approaching from the corner of your eye, coming to pause on the right side of the cage. ‘I can understand your silence. But what truly boggles the mind, bends my head into directions I didn’t even think feasible? How you managed to avoid D.O.’s influence and walked right into Lay’s memory like you were strolling through the park.’

He takes this moment to kneel by the bars, leering through the cage as if you were some kind of science experiment - a problem for him to sort out and _fix_ rather than understand. His stare becomes penetrative, and you can feel him moving within you as he attempts to unpack your humanity. 

‘That is twice now in as many days that you have defied, and alarmed, my men,’ he says, a dark foreboding laced through his cadence and something in you snaps.

This declaration is the flint to the kindling in your chest, and you launch yourself at the wall of the cage. You struggle mightily against the metal, feeling more like animal than you ever have before but you feel no regret for your abandoned pride. 

‘Alarmed your men?’ you exclaim, the words resonating with a metallic din. Had you been a wolf, you think this would be something akin to howling. You don't know where it comes from, you're usually observant and silent and calculating, but he's driven you the brink of yourself and he's waiting to see you break. 

‘She speaks!’ he says, pushing closer to the cage and smiling with malicious glee. 

‘Yes, I speak,’ you hiss through clenched teeth. ‘And you’re fucking vampires, you expect me to believe I’m the one alarming your men? I’m locked in a fucking cage!’

You find yourself biting back screams with each word and only now, locked in a cage and confronted with a true horror of a man do you really feel like you’re alive. This moment, fighting for survival and arguing with the devil is the most animate you’ve felt in days - perhaps even before being taken to the coven. The thought is startling, to be sure, but you’re awake and connected and you’re _thriving,_ so you fan the flames burning within you. 

‘Yes, alarmed my men,’ he sneers, ‘and that is putting it politely.’

‘Me? A human? Alarming a coven of vampires?’ you scoff. ‘I doubt you’d give a human that much respect.’

‘I have no fucking clue what you are,’ he spits, giving your body a cold once over. ‘To me, you’re as good as a weapon.’

It hits you then, that they might actually be wary of you. You’d like to chalk it up to the sheer force of your will, fierce and impressive and possibly unexpected, but truly you think it comes down to the fact that they have distanced themselves so far from humanity - literally and figuratively - that they’ve forgotten what it feels like to have something to lose. 

‘You must be pretty isolated if you’ve never seen strength of human character,’ you retort, eyeing him with scorn. 

‘Humanity has its weaknesses. Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.’ 

Something feels off about his statement, like you've tread onto something not meant for you. In a way, it sounds like he's started an entirely different conversation and it isn't the one you want. You're too angry for philosophy, you want a verbal sparring match. You want your words to become swords and you want to cut away at all his malice leaving nothing but the bloodied pulp of a man in their stead. 

‘So I’m to take the blame for all of this, then?’ you snap, changing the subject. ‘If D.O. was supposed to influence me then why didn't he?’

‘He tried -’

You roll your eyes and cut him off. ‘Okay, then he must have done it wrong.’

‘That's highly unlikely,’ he says, sarcasm frosting his words with ice. 

‘Clearly it isn't!’ you shout, pressing yourself roughly against the cage. You’re fighting him now just for the thrill of it. ‘Your precious deal went haywire because your man fucked up on what I assume is basic protocol.’

You're spitting the words, a fire burning on your tongue and you can't stop it - refuse to. It's all the things you've wanted to say, exactly as you want to say them, since you arrived at this forsaken building and you're chewing desperately at the relief you're starting to feel. 

‘Why not punish him? Throw _him_ in this fucking cage! But don't keep me here just because you're too -’

It happens so quickly you barely have time to react before you’re crushed, indelicately, against the cage. He’s reached a cold hand, almost indistinguishable from marble, through the bars. His fingers are fisted your shirt, pulling and pressing you against the metal so roughly the skin on your face starts to sting from the pressure as you attempt to turn away. 

‘I dare you to finish that sentence. I'm too what?’ he whispers, absolutely murderous. ‘This is the last time you will lecture me on how to run my coven. D.O. has taken his with punishment with dignity and silence. Are you strong enough to do the same?’

You want to be scared and for a moment you think you are - your breath comes in shallow inhales, panting in a rhythm easily misconstrued as defeat. 

But it isn't. You're excited. You start laughing. It's cold and inhuman and you're baffled by the sound, that such a noise could be birthed by your chest, but it feels good. It feels _good._

He regards you quizzically, watching the way you manically tremble through your fit and the way he watches you causes your laugh to slowly wither and die. You're suddenly aware of your heartbeat and you're sure he is too. You're suddenly aware that he's reading you - aware that what he sees gives him pleasure. 

This realization is one that makes a part of you feel sticky with sickness, gross with the thought of him and his eyes taking their fill of you. Another part of you, one you'd never before acknowledged, vibrates with a thrilling sort of resentment - because in a way you're pleased too. All of this has been building to a monumental catharsis, and you want to bathe in the retribution of it. 

‘Don't confuse loyalty with strength,’ you say, as he releases you. You remain still, forehead pressing against the bars to get as close to him as possible. ‘I have no allegiance to you. My silence is not owed to you.’

‘Really?’ he says with disdain. ‘It was given so freely the last two days.’

‘Your ignorance proves you have never truly known a woman,’ you taunt. ‘We are always at war, even if we are silent.’

And you mean it. Fully aware you’ve neither screamed nor cried in front of these men, you find it laughable for these things to be construed as complacent defeat. 

He chooses to ignore the obvious attack on his person and turns away from you. It's clear he's swallowing some venom, perhaps deciding how you should die. Instead, he changes direction completely. 

‘Fine, let’s say we do it your way and we blame D.O. for not influencing you - let’s just put it all on him, yeah?’ he says slowly. 

‘I never said that, don’t twist my words.’

He turns back to you, and you feel glad for it. You think you like burning through him - fighting him - and you want to make sure he watches every step you take. 

‘How do you explain the violation you enacted upon Yixing?’

It's meant as a threat, you can hear it in the way he words roll off his tongue. He expects you to listen to the language and the word choice, expects you to feel something between sorrow and fear but he will get no such thing. 

‘Violation?’ you shout, hands trying to twist themselves free, fruitlessly. ‘He was in my body! He told me it was a door!’

‘Yes, your door! To let _him_ in.’ His words are sharp and you want to bite at them, hold them between your teeth to gnaw them away. 

A wicked smile starts to play with your lips. He's getting frustrated and you're gratified by the sound. His voice has been growing louder with every word he says, and you want him to rupture. You're practically aching with the need to feel and see all his rage bleed out of him in wet, painful currents. 

You need to see how violent he can be, you need to witness it so you can truly comprehend it's scale. Perhaps because you're human he’s been toying with you and keeping his true colours tucked away for when you least expect it. But you've always hated surprises and you want nothing more than to lay all his cards out - you think it might help you break free from this ambiguous stasis. 

You want all the darkest parts of him, so you keep pushing. 

‘Why? So he can rummage around in my brain, taking what he pleases and I’m expected to be complacent?’

‘His power doesn’t work like that, he touches only what is given to him with consent,’ he says, breathing in his words like they're a cool wind for the inferno in his chest. 

He's teetering on the edge of outrage. The beauty of it saturates his features and for a moment you think you could you could weep at the sight of it. 

‘A door can be stepped through both ways. I consented to let him in, so I did.’

‘No, what you did was trespass on a man’s humanity!’ he says, pointing an angry finger at you. ‘You walked through his mind like his life was for sale.’

‘And _I’m sorry_ I did that, but how was I to know? If what I did was truly so terrible, why are we even having this conversation? Just kill me already!’

And then he releases everything that's been building under his skin in a deluge of bitter rage. 

‘Because he’s already forgiven you!’ he yells in a roar, reaching for your shirt once more and thrusting you up against the cage. Your head tilts back in satisfaction and you sigh. You don't why this happens or what has taken over your body, you revel in it. 

He seems to compose himself, turning his head to crack his neck. ‘And as it was his memories he gets to choose what happens to you. His cruelty is far less visceral than mine.’ 

In the wake of his shouts, you're left gasping for breath. You find him terrifying and biblical. The fear in you is at its breaking point, so strong and thick you think you might choke, but instead you suck on it to give yourself strength. 

You want to match him. You want to show him you are not his to break. 

‘Yes, it’s quite easy to see who the monsters are in this coven,’ you say, gently, coyly. You bring your eyes back to his. ‘When there’s a gun to my head, I’m sure I’ll be able to guess who’s pulling the trigger.’

He inches closer to your face and, with him so near, you have the sense that you could breathe all his strength into your lungs. 

‘For a person in such a position of power, I wouldn’t use your words so carelessly,’ he says, with his tone quiet but the softness nowhere to be found. 

‘Power? What, am I supposed to be lulled into believing I have some kind of control over all this?’

‘Knowledge _is_ power!’ he growls, almost shaking you. ‘You could undo centuries of work to protect ourselves with a single word.’

With this, he releases you with a slight push sending you tumbling onto your back. Yelping at the pressure on your heads, you fight your way back onto your knees and shake the hair out of your eyes. 

‘So what? You’re just going to keep me here? Locked in a cage like a fucking animal?’

In the back of your mind, his words from days ago float against your consciousness: _we don't deal in human trafficking._ It's not certain if it was meant for you to hear, a lie to placate you into serenity only for you to be sold to the highest bidder or an inconsequential truth deemed of little importance. Given when you've seen of him, you think he's too wrathful to lie - his anger a spark without any need for lies. But you can't imagine any other reason to be in a cage, and you need him to be explicit. 

‘Consider this cage a blessing. Any other coven and your throat would have already been slit for a feast.’

‘So fucking kill me then! Eat me! Get it the fuck over with! Wash your hands of me and free us both!’ You think you're ready to die, that this kind of rage and exhaustion is already eroding all the useful marrow of your bones so there isn't anything left for him to take except your skin. 

You think you finally understand him: that death by his hand would be a comfort. 

He pushes his head against the bars and you come to meet him, the skin of his forehead grazing yours almost delicately. ‘Because the anticipation of threat or death will kill you sooner than I’d dirty a suit with your blood.’ 

He's the true definition of fire. And you, coming down from a high you didn't know you were on, are in awe of him. 

Again, silence hangs between you but it no longer carries with the tension that previously clutched you both so tightly. Unwittingly, you both have worked through different ends of the same problem and, while no solution has been discerned by either of you, a silent agreement has been met.

When he finally decides to speak, his voice is distant and lost, musing through thoughts he chooses to keep tucked away. No longer in the sharing mood, he provides you only the last threads of his internal monologue. 

‘Do you have any idea what a perplexing oddity you are? How very unprecedented you are?’

You laugh, but it's empty and tired now, the fight in you dissipating with each exhale. ‘Am I supposed to be comforted by that?’

‘If you like,’ he replies, the bored tone in his voice returning once more. ‘I dare say it may be the thing that's keeping you alive.’

With him this close and the tension only haphazardly lingering in the air, you start to remember yourself. All at once you’re aware of what you’ve done, arguing with the sire of a coven like mortality is your plaything. It chills you to your core, how brash you’d been with your words. 

‘You’re sweet, your vulnerability smells like sugar.’ He says the words as if he’s heard your thoughts, but he’s breathed you in so deeply in the last hour you almost think he’s wearing you like cologne. ‘I could live and die by the scent of you, hero.’ 

Caught off guard, you release a shaking breath as you deflect his intimate statements. ‘I have a name. I know you’ve seen it.’

‘I know,’ he says rising to stand. ‘But hero suits you best.’ 

‘And am I to call you sire like the rest of your men?’ you ask, as you watch him walk to the chair. You admire his posture, all rigid and composed, and are bewildered by the very thought of him. How easy it could be for him, all fire and ore, to suddenly become merely a flicker of kinetic possibility. 

He holds the back of the chair, draping his fingers over the rim in a slight caress. ‘If you wish,’ he says, not bothering to look back at you. 

‘I don’t.’ You say it sharply, practically willing him to glance at you once more. 

‘Too bad.’ Chair in hand, he starts his walk back to the door with the same soundtrack by which he entered. Pausing at the door, he finally turns back to face you. 

‘Chanyeol. You can call me Chanyeol.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: The Wretched - Nine Inch Nails


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this Chanyeol POV chapter filled with politics and our man <3

CHANYEOL

Finally alone in his bunker, Chanyeol presses his back against the closed door and finds himself gasping for breath. He’s starting to feel choked in his collared shirt, sweating and gagging for release, and when he reaches to loosen his tie he’s caught off guard by his hands. There's a twitch in his fingers he hasn't seen in centuries, the kind that comes with the outrage and disappointment of unfulfilled promises. All his self control has been exhausted, and he feels _young_. He let himself get drunk on the human and now he's craving _everything_ he could possibly take from her. Tugging at the silk around his neck, he takes a breath and damns himself. 

Now, even rooms away, her fragrant scent haunts him with disturbing intensity. She’s ghosting over his senses in a siren song, the coursing of the blood in her veins rich and tangible and alive. His fingers are saturated with her and, though it was foolish to even touch her, they’re only inches from his mouth and he entertains the idea of licking them clean. This, he knows, is dangerous. Once he has a taste, he will never have his fill. He’s gluttonous and unapologetic about his thirst, always has been, but there’s something burning inside her he’s never witnessed in any other human, and he thinks she’d taste like molten gold. Ignoring every urge making his chest feel tight and compressed with yearning, he lowers his hands and breathes deeply through his mouth. 

He can taste her on the air, but the flavor is enough to cool his fire. Ideally he’d have her laid out before him and his throat would be full, teeth and tongue dripping with the stains of her, but this light tease will suffice. It’s enough for him to collect his will and manage a single, logical thought: _what the fuck is she?_

The beating of her heart, its stereotypical and unremarkable rhythm, signifies that she is human and living. But the strength of the beats and the flickering embers behind her eyes are uncharacteristic for a creature usually so meek and mild. Yes, her heart had fluttered in the cage of her chest and, yes, he had called her a hummingbird but before his eyes she’d transformed into something...Other. 

In swift succession, she peeled away all his defenses and bore straight through the heart of him. She never begged for her life or said please; she didn’t ask to die, she _demanded_ it with a vengeance worn only by immortals. She fought every word he said as though his mere presence was a punishment, and he thinks she was only this brave because she saw the fire in him and recognized it in herself.

As soon as he was in the room with her, he understood what Yixing had meant when he said she was nothing short of miraculous - though he thinks he’d prefer to call her peculiar. Yixing had worn his fright valiantly, acknowledging the possibility she was a weapon of combat against his better judgment. He’d been in her body, and this made him sympathetic to her, but Chanyeol had seen her heart and the the heart is fixed. The mind and body can lie, but the heart _burns_ and is unwavering in its truth. And in her heart, she was comprised of nothing but fury.

So while she is miraculous, she is also volatile and this meant Chanyeol would keep her unbearably close.

Pushing himself from the door, he walks briskly to the desk in the center of the room and removes the stopper on the crystal bottle. He a needs a drink. What he really needs is to feed on something fresh. The blood contained here is hardly recent, over a week since it was spilled from its plastic container but it will have to do. It’s too soon to arrange another shipment, the cargo destroyed by the human containing a month’s rations for his own coven. Reaching out to his suppliers after such a short time would raise alarm and raise questions, causing more problems than he already cares to deal with - and while he has the stamina, he really doesn’t have the patience. His men will survive, but their defenses will be down and this is why it is urgent he focus on what he has lost rather than what he has found. 

Rounding his desk with frustrated steps he drapes himself in the leather chair, stretching his legs and taking a swig of AB negative with a rumble in his chest. Immediately he feels the tension in his body ease to a manageable level, exhaustion fading from him like smoke. He’s not at full strength, but he’s still a battalion unto himself and this energy will be necessary in the coming days. 

He looks once more at his hands and studies the stains on his fingers. He’s not sure how long they’ve been covered with blood but he decides to leave it on, wearing it like gloves. It serves as a reminder of and a tether to all the lies that have circled around him for days, and he thinks he looks good in retribution. Recalling Jun-Yeon’s interrogation, and his now dead body, he refocuses his attention and contemplates the information he knows to be true. 

A halfling was born within days of the alliance with Jimin’s coven completing negotiations, however whether she was spawned before or after his blood signature he can't be sure. Eventually, Jun-Yeon revealed that she was made with purpose and he feels residual disappointment that his captive was only forthcoming after the loss of his fangs. Knowing that she was not an accident, that she was not born out despondent misery, it is easy to discern that she was planted near the perimeter either as an insurance policy or as a breach of contract. 

Correction: a direct, implicit threat. 

Jimin’s coven is sick from within, dwindling in numbers and running into difficulties negotiating bounties with multiple dealers - perhaps the worst of these issues being a lack of suppliers for food and arms resources. Chanyeol remains unsympathetic to this, finding the affairs of others to be trivial and inconsequential, and only became involved after a sudden influx of halflings appearing near his territory. He’s counted thirteen halflings in the last five months, and so it is neither uncommon nor surprising to find they've made another halfling - he’s come to expect it. 

What makes this halfling different is the timing and the clause of the deal. 

The halflings born by Jimin’s comrades are acts of desperation, signs that some men are fearing the realities of starvation. This kind of fear bears with it a chaotic and disorganized frenzy, the kind where vampires with little self control feed on humans only to be consumed by panic. A panic of this magnitude results in halfling creation - a thing comprised entirely of mistakes; a realization that you have emptied a person, and to leave the body behind means reporters, and police activity, and theories, so you give just enough of your blood back to keep it alive. 

It's alive but it's neither human nor vampire, and that's the worse curse of all - a thing born out of selfish malcontent. 

It's typical for halflings appear without ceremony or pattern, given the nature of their birth. Sometimes there are many and other times just one. In every instance they were found barely alive and frail, abandoned so early in their existence it’s astounding they were even aware of functions beyond satiating their thirst. The point is that they were found. The point is that they were weak, and the point is that they stopped once negotiations began - the point is that they were meant to stop altogether. 

This halfling was strong, born in what could have been hellfire given the sound of her screeches. A banshee in spirit, she descended on his coven swiftly and in the cover of darkness. She wasn't lost, wandering helplessly on the curtails of death, she was alert and she was _hunting._

There was no bitter accident about her birth. She had not been abandoned, she’d been trained and she had been nurtured. 

But while all the signs of her existence point towards an obvious betrayal, he has no tangible proof of intent or motive. In an ideal world, these losses would be pinned on Jimin’s infighting, but without any evidence Chanyeol has no way to deflect the atrocity that took shape on his end of the deal. If the halfling was mere coincidence, then it would be on his men that money and blood have been lost - and that the secrecy of both covens is now at stake. And while his coven may be the largest in number and strongest, Jimin's has the enough territory coverage and legitimate property assets that make for an advantage in battlefield strategizing. 

In terms of coven and monetary growth, it has always been Chanyeol’s interest to merge with Jimin however it was never a necessity. To him, the merger was merely a security measure. For Jimin, the merger was a chance at survival, and now that ties between the covens are tarnished there is every possibility Jimin will take a reactionary approach to politics. 

Jimin was always quick to war. 

Chanyeol knows of these things to be true, has been, in some fashion, able to prepare for them and all their alternative outcomes - even the ones that don’t end in his favor. But the human acts as an unexpected variable and her very presence makes him nervous, not weak or impotent, but aware that something very much out of his control is looming on the horizon. She changes the rules, and he never liked change unless his gains were explicit and numerous. 

His thoughts are disrupted by Jongdae, who swiftly enters while ushering the burned, mangled form of a vampire and a woman. 

Not a woman. A halfling. _The_ halfling.

She’s naked, and the flesh hangs from her bones as though it were soap and wax and melting away. Blood has been taken from her and not nearly enough returned to her limp skin. She chomps her jaw as she looks in every direction, throwing her gaze on everything all at once - she’s eating the world, first with her eyes and then with her mouth. And, when Chanyeol finally wills himself to actually look at her eyes, stomachs the pain and fear and anguish he’s loathe to admit pools in his chest, he almost feels tempted to give her mercy. 

The human pieces of her are lingering, clinging desperately to whatever part of her mind they can find. They live the shallows behind her hungry stare, though the pupils are red and wild and ravenous. He can see them there, all the questions she can no longer ask, a thirst so violent and horrible she feels as though she’s carrying hell itself in her slow, black heart. 

In a sense, she is. 

Chanyeol has murdered and killed and tasted his way through history. He’s tortured men and woman, licked at the flesh of children, and fucked his way through and in between humanity for so long he thinks mercy is a myth. But when he sees a halfling, is forced to be confronted by something truly cursed, he thinks he could have it in him to be kind even if it is a fleeting whim. 

Removing his attention from the halfling, he looks at Jongdae and watches the way his chest heaves with effort. There's more than battle or fright elevating his breaths, there's a fraternal heartbreak weaving itself along his features. The halfling struggles against him and he subdues her with ease but she is not, and likely never was, his focus, she's merely background noise. 

Jongdae refuses to look away from something so Chanyeol follows his gaze and has to bite down on his tongue to keep from growling. 

‘Kyungsoo?’

Slumped against the wall, a vampire with his fangs drawn is dry heaving. The flesh on his face and arms has been burned so severely hair no longer exists atop his skull. His lips are chafed and blood is seeping from the holes and grooves in his skin. The cells of his body are swollen and moist, leaking from the inside out. 

Chanyeol knows it's Kyungsoo for two reasons. 

The first is his posture. Broken and fingering true death with every haggard breath he draws, he still manages to emulate strength - remaining noble even at the edge of his demise. Even in the heat of reckless abandon, he would remain unmoved and taciturn, perpetually wearing the skin of a soldier. 

And second, his eyes. They're pale white and starting to cloud over, threat of death passing over them in slow tendrils, but they remain fixed on Chanyeol with a dignified longing for absolution. And behind the white, Kyungsoo’s mind is screaming. 

Jongdae speaks but barely opens his mouth. He's tense with sorrow but refuses to put these sentiments on display. ‘He brought the halfling to the gate. I’m not sure -’

Chanyeol doesn't give him time to finish his sentence. He snaps his fingers and quickly pulls a syringe from his desk drawer. ‘Get Yixing.’

Swiftly moving toward Jongdae, he angles the syringe so that in one quick motion it is buried in her neck and she screams as though wrath itself was carried between her ribs. Almost immediately she falls limp, eyes wide open and staring at the sky as she falls back against Jongdae’s chest, silent and afraid. He catches her weight with ease, but his attention remains fixed on Kyungsoo. 

‘Did you hear me?’ Chanyeol snaps, his voice cutting through the echo of her screams. ‘Get Yixing and put her with the others.’ 

His tone brings Jongdae back to the present, and he nods his head without saying a word. Hauling the halfling over his shoulder, he moves at an inhuman speed out the door. 

Tossing aside the empty syringe, Chanyeol kneels before Kyungsoo and gingerly cradles his head in both of his hands. Now he can truly see the extent of Kyungsoo’s wounds, and he wonders how he even made it back to the hold with death perched on his shoulder.

‘Kyungsoo, what have you done,’ he whispers. Taking care to be delicate, he lifts Kyungsoo’s head so he can study the full state of him, hands slick with the excrement of Kyungsoo’s burns. He is fading in the palm of his hands, and Chanyeol feels as if the world around him is turning to ash. 

‘I had to,’ Kyungsoo says, although the words come out bruised and raw. ‘I had to protect the coven.’

At the sound, Chanyeol collapses to the floor, his tailbone settling hard on the concrete beneath his despair. ‘Did you take Baekhyun with you? Did he give you any light to protect you?’ he asks. 

Baekhyun is the only way they can walk in the daylight, his light an ironic sort of purity that protects only the damned. If he was with Kyungsoo when they found the halfling, and somehow got separated, Chanyeol needs to prepare himself for a body count. Baekhyun wouldn’t allow himself to be caught without a fight, and the sheer noise of him would draw attention for miles around. 

‘I couldn’t tell -’ Kyungsoo’s response is cut short as he coughs, pus and blood frothing at the corners of his mouth. ‘They’d have stopped me.’

‘Damn right they would have,’ Chanyeol mutters, rolling up his sleeve. ‘You're fucking stupid for leaving without the day walker.’

Bringing his wrist to his lips, he draws his fangs and pierces his own veins until an angry gash, deep and weeping, lives between his marble skin. Putting the wound to Kyungsoo’s mouth, he furrows his brow and waits. 

‘Drink this, it will keep you alive until Yixing can heal you.’

With a groan, Kyungsoo turns away from blood and whimpers. ‘I don’t deserve your blood.’ 

Kyungsoo is letting his guilt kill him. It was on his watch that the deal was ruined, and so it will be on his watch the coven can be saved from at least one threat, even at the cost of his life. 

Indignant rage boils at the base of Chanyeol’s spine, and he thrusts himself forward to force Kyungsoo’s lips open with the pressure of his arm. ‘Goddammit, Kyungsoo!’ he growls. ‘Drink!’

Weakly, Kyungsoo begins to suck and Chanyeol feels his eyes roll back at the stimulation. This was always his least favourite part of healing with blood, the sheer intimacy of the action. Pieces of himself being given away, pieces he had no control over, the darkness spreading from his soul and into his men like a sickness. 

‘I don’t want to punish you Kyungsoo, but you keep giving me reasons to,’ he says, lifting his wrist after Kyungsoo has had his fill. Groaning, he feels the skin of his wrist mend itself together with a stinging burn. 

The clouds in Kyungsoo’s eyes have faded, the blue glimmer of immortality speckling the brown irises once more. His life had been saved, but only just. 

‘You have to punish me,’ he hisses, coughing once more but this time it is infinitely less wet. ‘I endangered the coven. It’s my blood oath to die if I ever do such a thing.’

‘And is my oath to protect you,’ Chanyeol says with equal vigor. 

‘You cannot be easy on me,’ Kyungsoo says fiercely, and for a moment his human form saying the similar words.

_‘You cannot let death be easy for me.’_

‘You have punished yourself enough for the both of us,’ Chanyeol chastises, though his statement is all encompassing and grand, covering centuries of mutual regret. 

He knows this is precisely why Kyungsoo is not his second in command: he’s too noble for his own good. To a fault, his desire for righteousness and justice, to protect his comrades with honor, persuades him to make choices that are both irrational and dangerous. Too willing to lay down his life for his brethren, he serves with an affection that is toes the line between self-sacrificial and foolish. And while this is undoubtedly his best quality, it is also his most imprudent.

‘You were my first,’ Chanyeol says softly. ‘We have grieved together, and suffered so much loss. I cannot mourn you alone.’ He doesn’t think he’s ever been more genuine about anything in his life, and he satisfied that it’s these words that make him so. 

Yixing bursts through the door with Jongdae at his heels, and with one glance at Kyungsoo it’s clear he’s biting back a howl of remorse. He doesn’t ask questions, just immediately settles at Kyungsoo’s side and touches him with the sort of compassion meant only for lovers. Consent here is unspoken and implied, openness given fully before it is sought and within moments Yixing is swimming in Kyungsoo’s head.

‘Can you heal this?’ Chanyeol asks, mumbling so has not to disturb Yixing’s concentration.

‘I can, but it may take many sessions. He’s been burned straight through, even his organs are scorched.’ The words fall from Yixing’s mouth but his eyes remain closed and he appears as though he has left his body behind, his voice absent and transcending the atmosphere.

‘Do what you can,’ Chanyeol commands, turning on his heels to approach his desk. ‘I’ll have questions for him later.’

Ripping open a drawer, he takes an empty file and brings it to one of his fangs. He wastes no time in pulling the top off and bringing it to his mouth. After a brief moment of focus, a single, pure drop of saliva falls into the glass and he caps it with his thumb.

‘Sire,’ Jongdae says, warily, ‘you aren’t at full strength. At least let me go with you.’

It took five centuries with Jongdae as his second for Chanyeol to be provided the leisure of knowing how well Jongdae could read him, though he thinks sometimes he allows himself to feel surprise just for the thrill luxuriating in the feeling of something comfortable. He knows this is why he is so powerful, every action he takes followed carefully behind by Jongdae as a means of support and balance. Never has he felt the need to glance behind him to check for Jongdae’s presence, it was always assumed and proved to be there - felt sometimes even over miles of physical disconnect. He is always there, a knowing specter looming in the shadows to take care, and to manage, and to guide.

But while Jongdae can read him with ease, Chanyeol knows when he says things out of propriety rather than expecting a response - he already anticipates the answer before it’s given. 

So when he brushes past him without a second glance, he doesn’t even need to listen to know exactly what Jongdae says.

‘Get some rest, Yixing. I’ll bring Kyungsoo to his bunk. We’ll need you soon enough.’

And he knows that Jongdae is locking the gate behind him as soon as he steps through, putting the coven on quarantine - no one in and no one out - until Chanyeol himself is standing back at the bars demanding entry. 

He knows that Jongdae is putting Jongin and Xiumin on patrol, and keeping Suho at his side as means of precaution. 

He knows that Jongdae is preparing for him not to return at all.


	6. Chapter 6

The night always surprises him, how vibrant and electric it is. Even as a human, he preferred the darkness and felt at peace in its cold embrace - much like being held by water. When he feels introspective and bitter, he thinks this is why death eluded him. He'd made a home of the shadows, so all encompassing and whole, that there was nowhere left for him to go - nowhere else his soul could belong; rejected by the afterlife into the arms of night. 

It's fitting, he thinks. He died with the sun, during a sunset so violent and red for a moment it appeared his blood had spilled into the sky. The dusk encased him and wrapped him in stars as he withered beneath a tree, soaking the grass beneath him until even the leaves above were dripping with his stain. Sometimes he wishes the tree was his grave, his ashes its roots. 

He was ready to die, welcomed it with a smile bordering on ecstatic as he drank the light of the moon like milk, but it refused him. The eyes of his maker greeted him like a ravenous void, with a blackness so full of thirst and chaos for a moment he thought he'd passed through a dying star. 

He died, ready for an empty eternity. But then, he lived. 

And the galaxies above welcomed him with distant and open arms. He'd wept at the sight, a true vision of all the life gleaming under cover; glimmering and waiting to be touched, kissed, and known. It made him feel small. It made him feel the true meaning of awe. He thought he'd been chosen. He thought he'd become a god. 

Tonight, the skies are anxious. Tonight, the skies are cowering under his hard stare and the sight makes him crack his neck to release a fraction of the tension spreading itself along his spine. He knows it's his reckless indignation tainting his sight. Truthfully, he shouldn't be out. Truthfully, he's being careless. But in times of war, he likes to be one step ahead of the opposition - and even though it hasn't officially been declared, he can smell it on the wind and he finds the stench offensive in its simplicity. 

When he reaches Jimin’s club, he waits in the alley around the back and starts to feel damp. His skin becomes moist with anticipation and remembrance - this used to be his office. Pressed against tepid brick and sick with a hunger caressing the lines of savagery, he would linger in alleys just like this. He fed on the weak and the drunk, the drugged and aroused - it didn't matter. They all bled so beautifully.

The meeting point is stereotypical, he knows this. Forced to wait in the filth and squalor seeping from the trash and into the street, he's aware this is done with purpose. This is regarded as his full potential, this is what Jimin thinks of everyone but himself - everything a worthless nothing, easily forgotten and easily replaced. Some nights, Chanyeol agrees and thinks perhaps the world would be better if everything burned. Tonight, though, it's an insult directed at him and the arrogance of it makes his fangs itch. 

The watch on his wrist tells him he's been waiting for five minutes and he impatiently grits his teeth. There was never a set meeting, his presence is uninvited and likely unwelcome, but he knows that it is felt. It looms in the dark, outside the reach of the street lamps and is sensed with a magnetism akin to doom. His presence is felt and it is being ignored. 

Chanyeol is many things, many brutal things soaked in blood and dripping in gun smoke, but he is never tardy and finds that waiting, different from the patience of hunting, is a trivial habit singular only to humanity. He fondles the vile in his pocket and his fingers gently slide over the wooden bullets pooled next to it. He allows himself a brief reprieve and imagines putting one between Jimin’s eyes. The inherent satisfaction of it makes him thirsty in a way that causes a smile to pull at his lips. It's not the first time he's allowed himself to wallow in the fantasy, the vision of it forming graphically in his mind more times than he can count. He was always happiest with bodies collected at his feet. 

A metal door on the side of the building swings open, revealing a tall, muscular man in a well-tailored black suit. After a quick glance around the alley, he brings his attention to Chanyeol and nods with a heavy grunt. 

‘About fucking time,’ Chanyeol hisses. He looks past the bodyguard and sees no other men, no back up. 

Gliding towards the door, he gives the man a once over as he passes through with a cocked eyebrow. The guard is dressed in a way he finds completely unnecessary, crisp suit clean and pressed and expensive. He pauses just beyond the threshold and smirks. 

‘Big man hooked you up with Tom Ford but couldn't get you backup?’

‘Follow,’ is the curt reply. 

Chanyeol rolls his tongue over his teeth at the blatant disrespect, but says nothing. Now is not the time for gutting the help. 

They walk silently down a corridor, likely only used by the maintenance staff given the buckets and mops with red stains woven through cloth, and turn a corner that leads to the kitchens. He eyes every single person quickly as they pass, exhaling quietly through his mouth and ignoring the way the smell of human food makes his stomach churn in disgust. The scent is thick and synthetic, the purity of raw muscle soiled by butter, and oil, and wine, as if these things somehow improve the taste. He normally doesn’t feel this way, but the scent of the human and the lack of fresh blood has turned him into a primal thing and he relishes slightly the feeling of being unpredictable.

He counts two concealed weapons, observing the outline of the barrel in the back pocket of one chef and in the apron of the other; possibly Sig Sauer P228 given the size and length, though he can't be sure. To anyone else, they would appear comfortable and careless - giving away their tells like they were inviting bloodshed to their doorstep - but he knows this is all merely an illusion.

_Everything_ is an illusion, and Chanyeol has always been far too perceptive for his kind. They _want_ him to know they are armed, safety off and trigger finger ready without pause. They want him to know they are lethal and that, to them, loss of life is insignificant and happenstance.

He smothers a chuckle in his throat, acknowledging these pretenses with a roll of his eyes. He’d have them outnumbered and overpowered in seconds. 

They pass silently through another hallway, yellowed and peeling beneath the harsh fluorescent light, walls lined with stickers of bands and sharpie markings of drunks professing love and loathing.

**_J <3 A 4E_ **

**_Marcus is a fucking cunt!_ **

Lives are painted on these walls, smeared into the concrete with haphazard nonchalance, and Chanyeol reaches a hand out to touch them as he passes, grazing each with his sharp nails as though he were grasping at throats. 

The guard pushes on a solid black door which opens to the VIP terrace of the club interior, leather chairs and plush couches lined against the wall across from tables pressed tightly along the railing. Immediately, they are assaulted with a throbbing, electronic bassline and the sheer volume of the sound makes Chanyeol’s ears ring slightly as his hearing adjusts. It’s the first thing he notices, before the onslaught of human desire.

It surrounds him, taunts his senses in a come hither whisp beneath his nose, strong enough to make his steps falter from the force of it. The club is in heat and everyone is succumbing to the pull, pawing at one another in dark corners and against the bar. He smells the spit, the sweat, the dripping sex of the women and the strained breathing of the men. His senses are haywire, a thirst rising in his throat so wet and greedy he starts to salivate. He absentmindedly runs his tongue along his lips before gaining control of his synapses and strides blithely across the terrace towards a table nestled in the back.

Jimin is lounging in his chair, legs languidly stretched out and crossed at the side of the table. He presides over the patrons of his club, stoic and immobile, a red straw dangling from his lips as he chews it with a tense jaw. He watches over the dance floor with a detached sort of interest befit for a gargoyle, and for a moment Chanyeol sees him as a monument, a statue to be vandalized and dismantled. 

As he approaches, Jimin catches the movement from the corner of his eye and, briefly, a scowl toys with his features before smoothing to a placid, albeit vacant, expression. Waving in an awkward, slightly forced motion, he points to a chair that Chanyeol has no desire to take. He'd rather pull out his collarbone, he'd rather gnaw through the veins in his neck, but instead he stands next to the chair and bows. 

His body shudders in protest at the action, a proper greeting being offered when none is given in return breaks a millennia of rules and propriety. There's no room for politeness here, that much is true given how Jimin is looking at him, but Chanyeol has played this game enough to know that everything is a test, a challenge of his willpower. He’s played this game before and he will play it to the end, even if it means burning out what's left of his soul. 

‘Chanyeol. What a pleasant surprise,’ Jimin says, glancing back at the floor below and making a point of not looking at him when he speaks.

‘I figured a chat between men was in order,’ Chanyeol says, straightening to stand. His fingers are aching to crack, to claw, to tear at something as pliable as flesh. 

Jimin nods to the guard who places a hand on his shoulder and turns him, crude and full of discourtesy. He wonders if this man knows he is a sire. He probably does. He probably doesn't care. 

‘Arms up,’ he says, sharply. 

The guard’s hands roam over Chanyeol’s body with purposeful force, rough and indelicate, searching him for weapons, drugs, or money.

‘Does this mean you're buying me dinner?’ Chanyeol asks, feigning innocence with wide eyes.

The guard says nothing but his scowl hardens, apathetic and cold. 

His actions are intimate and slow, and Chanyeol clicks his tongue as his hands round and press against his ass. He gives the man a dirty smirk when his fingers find the barrel of the HK USP 45 Match tucked between his trousers and back. 

‘Find something you like?’ Chanyeol whispers, puckering his lips and blowing a kiss. 

‘You can get this when you leave.’ 

He tosses the gun onto the table, and it lands with a loud clatter. 

‘Be gentle with her. She’s a rarity,’ Chanyeol says, lowly. 

Hands move to the front pockets of his coat and he moves his torso at a slight angle to graze his hip bones against wandering fingers, watching the way the man’s mouth settles into a frown of frustration. He stifles a laugh, relishing how uptight and by the book the guard is. He must be new. The bullets are found quickly, and for a moment he can tell the guard considers taking and burning them, but without a magazine to load they are effectively useless. 

He drops his hands and nods at Chanyeol before turning to reach for the gun on the table. Chanyeol studies his back and the way his coat awkwardly drapes along his ass, sighing with a roll of his eyes. 

‘You should keep your knife in your breast pocket,’ he says casually to the guard as he pulls out his chair. ‘Harder to notice and easier to reach.’ He gives the man a wink as he gracefully settles in his seat, painting an expression of mild-mannered boredom on his face. 

‘He’s clean,’ the guard says as he takes the gun and leaves. Chanyeol shakes his head minutely, glad to be rid of him. 

‘Do you have your entry fee?’ Jimin asks, finally bringing his eyes to him and addressing him properly. 

Chanyeol reaches into his pocket, pulling out the vile and setting it in the table between them. There's a brief pause during which they both stare at the small glass, glistening with liquid. Coloured lights bounce and refract along the glass in rhythm to the music, giving it an otherworldly glow. 

Eventually, Jimin reaches to take it, breaking their visual stand off, and thumbs the cap slowly while looking Chanyeol directly in the eye. He brings it to his nose and inhales, deep and erotic, eyelids fluttering as the scent of Chanyeol’s venom settles in his stomach. 

He watches with dead eyes and starts to feel violated. He knows this is the point. He knows this is the true meaning of payment, the offering of something not easily parted with. 

Jimin caps the vile with a satisfied cough and places it in his breast pocket, right next to his heart. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but my supplies were interrupted,’ he says, implication tarnishing his polite tone. 

‘Gin will be fine,’ he announces, sounding almost nice, and he remains impassively calm as he watches Jimin raise his eyebrows in minor surprise. 

And it's now that Chanyeol has to force himself to forgive the disrespect and the judgement, looks them over with a casual shrug of his shoulders because now, now is when his resolve matters most. This isn't the time to be petty or playful, this is strategy and an infiltration of defenses so slow and absolute it will be too late before anyone notices the collapse.

As Jimin snaps his fingers, motioning to a bartender, Chanyeol is locking pieces of himself away and pushing his hungry parts into corners made of iron. His focus is becoming narrow and he is silencing all his distractions: his anger, his thirst, the exhaustion, the ache in his joints. He's shutting down and focusing on one thing and one thing only: to swallow and to survive. 

A glass of gin on the rocks is placed in front of him, and he forces a grin as he regards the shadows it casts. His fingers idly run along the rim and he brings his eyes to Jimin, who watches him expectantly. 

To his right, a woman is dancing with...someone. A stranger. Her boyfriend. It doesn’t really matter, but Chanyeol can smell her. He’s getting whole mouthfuls of her sweat and perfume, the sex of her consuming the atmosphere, and this is what he focuses on as he brings the glass to his lips. Her scent mixes with the alcohol in a bewildering away, the pleasurable aroma souring slightly until neither she nor the gin are recognizable.

He opens his throat and swallows.

All at once his body is at war, tearing and ripping itself apart from the inside and rejecting the gin with such strength he feels his muscles constricting with a visceral quake. He’s being lit on fire, alcohol mixing with bile to become something atomic, and he feels his veins throb in an effort to maintain control.

In his mind he is screaming, a bloodcurdling howl so violent and agonizing his bones resonate with the sound. In his mind he is dying, the last of his strength dissipating under the burn of the drink and he thinks he'd like to sleep and sleep and sleep. In his mind, this is suicide. 

He refuses Jimin to the pleasure of witnessing this, his features serene and confident as he purses his lips to feign the smooth warmth of a good drink. Placing the now empty glass gently on the table, he blinks and he smiles.

‘Jinzu,’ he says, tongue taking the excess with a curl in his upper lip. ‘Sweet.’

He has thirty minutes, at most. 

Seemingly convinced, Jimin relaxes into the back of his chair and looks out once more at the floor below. 

‘You said you wanted to chat?’

‘Yes. If I may, I’d like to get right to it.’ Chanyeol follows Jimin’s gaze and settles on a woman with hair so red and thick it looks as though she is made entirely of blood. ‘I've never been one for...dancing.’

Jimin nods almost imperceptibly. ‘It's why I chose to deal with you.’

At this, Chanyeol turns and leans forward across the table. He’s accosted by the smell of Jimin’s cologne, in his nose and his mouth, and it makes him sick, makes him want to cut out his tongue to forget the flavor. ‘I believe _I_ chose to make a deal with _you,_. You understand?’

His tone is menacing and sharp, effectively releasing himself from the shackles of propriety. All his pieces are set delicately on the chessboard and now he’s free to be ruthless. 

‘You make it sound as though you had a choice,’ comes Jimin’s arrogant hiss. 

‘I don’t deal often. I find the necessity of others to be finite.’ 

Jimin clenches his jaw and turns slowly to peer at Chanyeol with narrow eyes. ‘Am I meant to be moved?’ 

‘People lie,’ Chanyeol says, holding his stare and suppressing a gagging cough. ‘They manipulate what is and what was to match their mood, their whim.’

‘I thought you didn’t like dancing, comrade.’

‘The most precious thing a man can have is his word. You gave me your word,’ he whispers, yet he knows Jimin can hear him. ‘You gave me your blood.’

His words are sharp and calloused, fire to the iron of Jimin’s indifference and now Chanyeol can see it. He can see the urge grow from Jimin’s neck and climb into his teeth, settling in his mouth in a white rage, blinding and pure. He wants to show his fangs and he knows he cannot. 

‘I think you’ll find, Chanyeol,’ he growls, ‘you gave me the same.’

‘Yes, mine was given freely out of honor and respect.’ He leans back in his chair with a flick of his wrist, partly being dismissive, partly trying to shake the spasms out of his tendons. ‘Yours...well, was I meant to ignore the halfling attempting to chew her way through my gate?’

He settles his cold gaze on Jimin and waits. He's being blunt and he's being dangerous, but the bile is rising in his chest and it seems dangerous is the only option left. 

Jimin cocks his head, calculating all his options before speaking. Chanyeol half expects to die. ‘You’re making a bold statement, comrade. I hope you’re comfortable with the consequences that come with it.’

Leaning forward, Chanyeol places his hands beneath the table and claws at it, scratching in one long slow movement until his nails are buried deep. He’s cutting away at the wood and the pain helps release some of the anguish, a brief, violent distraction. It's enough for him to focus on speech. ‘I hope you’re comfortable being the man who broke a blood deal.’

‘You have no proof.’ His syllables are cruel, accentuated as though he were speaking to a misbehaved child and filled with disdain. 

Chanyeol simply sits and purses his lips into a slight pout, a look he knows to be taunting. Jimin is equally as wrathful as he, conniving and smart and violent, and the only way for Chanyeol to get the truth is to smoke him out: either by patience or by bullet. Jimin assumes there is no proof and, while he is right, Chanyeol is astute enough to plant the seed of doubt. 

They sit this way for several moments and, for a time, Chanyeol thinks the force of his hands might break the table in two. Eventually, slowly like ice frost dusting over grass, Chanyeol sees Jimin question himself, a flash of doubt in his eyes before it retreats and hides itself away. This simple refraction of light is enough for Chanyeol to know he has won. 

‘I have your venom.’ Jimin says, breaking the silence. 

‘I have your second.’

‘Yes, I imagined he hadn’t wandered far,’ Jimin says, running a finger along his lips. ‘And how is he?’

‘Rotting.’

Jimin pushes himself forward and, to the unaware or ignorant, this would look almost friendly. He comes to lean close to Chanyeol, like he's ready to share something personal and private, offering words only to Chanyeol in confidence. Instead, his voice is ominous and aggressive. ‘Did you come here to threaten me on my territory?’

He chuckles. ‘I’m unarmed. I’m hardly threatening.’ 

‘Did you come to re-negotiate?’ Jimin demands, tapping a finger on the table. 

‘Now, now,’ he says, smoothly, ‘I’m not in the business of negotiating war.’

‘Then you shouldn’t be dealing in blood.’

The words are tossed into the air like steel dice, a harsh gamble on Chanyeol’s reaction. They are nothing but contempt and mockery of his ability to manage his coven, and the oncoming storm of bloodshed. 

‘You misunderstand me,’ he retorts, leaning forward with nothing but malice in his chest. ‘I don’t negotiate in war because it is never about business meetings, it’s about men dying. I think you should expect to bleed before you make promises you can’t keep.’

‘I’d watch your tongue,’ he spits. ‘You’re on _my_ territory. I’d have your fangs before sunrise.’ 

Chanyeol thinks of the new guard and the armed men in the kitchen. He thinks of Jimin’s money and his clean shirts. Everything is pretense, and he doubts Jimin has ever personally bled a man for business before allowing himself to watch their world fall. 

He thinks of the melting sensation in his stomach and the way his insides feel as though they are in a state of decay. 

Even on the edge of death, Chanyeol would have their jaws ripped clean before they even touched him. 

‘But wouldn’t that spoil it, just a little?’ he says, brightly. ‘All the fun we’re having?’

Again, Jimin remains silent but he watches Chanyeol in a way that is too calculating to merely be sizing him up. Already, he is plotting and preparing. Already, he is planning the first scar he will leave on Chanyeol’s coven. 

‘I think I’ll take my leave, comrade.’ Chanyeol rises from his seat with an airy sigh, and dusts his hands on his trousers. To the naked eye, it appears he is smoothing nonexistent creases. Really, he's wiping the wood out of his nails. 

‘A wise idea, yes.’

They regard each other cooly before Chanyeol bows, chewing the insides of his mouth to stop himself from retching as he faces the ground. Coming to rise, he smiles before exiting the way he came. 

In the hallway, the guard is waiting for him. He hands Chanyeol his gun and, even though he wants to run and push himself into the night air before his body caves in on itself, he remains nothing but the image of calm. 

It takes four minutes for Chanyeol to make it to the dockyard several blocks away.

It takes two more minutes for him to move himself away from any wandering eyes or city lights.

And then, in the secrecy of night and with only the moon to watch him, he bends over and vomits violently onto the pavement. At full strength, he would have taken the drink with glee. He always loved gin, though prefers it sloe, and for a moment he mourns the rich flavor of the sake mixed drink. But he was hardly at full strength, and this meant that anything other than pure, human blood, would make him feel as though he was being skinned alive.

Forcing the delay of rejection has caused his body to go into overdrive, soul fire turning his bile into an obsidian mess. The force of his heaves sends ripples through his muscles and his chest, and he has to grip the dockyard rails to keep himself from falling. 

It’s then that he notices his hands are sweating and blazing red. The poles of the railings are glowing and bending under his hands.

He is a molten core and he is smithing the iron into chaos. 

With the black stains of is insides still dripping from his mouth, he runs and runs and runs until the coven gate is in view. Before he is in reach, he can smell her - the human, his hero. He’s still several hundred feet away, but he thinks he could hear her heartbeat for miles, a tether and lure to his dying heart. It’s calm and strong, evenly paced and it’s clear she is either with Yixing or has been fed. There is no fear, just the strong aroma of healthy, human blood coursing vitally through delicious flesh. 

When he reaches the gate, he presses his back against it, opting to keep his hands off the first line of defense so as not to damage it. His presence is felt immediately, and it slides open against his shoulder blades in a hard massage. 

Hands hold him and touch him, this time reverently, and he’s aware he’s lost consciousness because when he finally opens his eyes, finally becomes cognizant of his surroundings, he’s back in his bunker, but his breathing his shallow. 

Jongdae hovers above him, barking orders, and still all he can smell is the human. He’s nothing but a jumble of nerves, the desire to feast on her causing his chest to lift itself from his bed and he roars, miserably and desperately, in a state of true starvation. 

Minseok holds him down, and he yelps at the cold rush along his arms. It’s obvious he’s regulating his fever, and he can make out Junmyeon as he sits quietly in a corner, generating a cool mist in the air, although he is blurred and merely a phantasm of tranquility.

After a time, Yixing rushes to his side and Chanyeol can feel him stroking gently at his consciousness.

_Hello, old friend. We have used too much of you these last days._

Yixing is screaming. His eyes are red and dry, and Chanyeol could cry at the sight. He’s burning the very heart out of Yixing and turning him to ash, his mind and heart nothing but an inferno of grief consuming all good intentions.

Realizing that even the supernatural will not heal their sire, Jongdae leaves and almost immediately returns with a plastic sack in his hands. He tears it open with his teeth and thrusts it againsts Chanyeol’s mouth, pulling his lips apart with his thumb.

The blood cascades down Chanyeol’s throat like a balm and he groans in sheer delight. He’s utterly ravenous, starved within an inch of his sanity and he drinks and drinks until all that’s left is the taste of plastic. Another is offered to him and he takes it, greedily, consuming it with all the urgency as though it were a beating heart held between his hands. 

When he finishes, he finally has the strength to speak.

‘They’re mobilising,’ he gasps, tongue wet and heavy in his mouth. ‘The kitchen staff are armed. I imagine it’s the same for the other three clubs. He’s preparing defenses and expecting retaliation - he’s even got new body guards.’ 

‘Do we know his intent?’ Minseok asks, lips blue from his cold.

‘I imagine it was planned,’ he coughs, referring to the deal. ‘He has something that makes him confident. He was too collected, arrogant but in a different way.’

‘We need a mole. Someone on the inside,’ Jongdae suggests, ripping off part of his shirt and handing the cloth to Chanyeol to wipe his mouth clean. ‘And we need to move Sehun’s initiation forward. He’ll be valuable.’

‘Yes,’ Chanyeol agrees. ‘It will have to be tomorrow. We can’t spare the time.’

Momentarily, he looks at his hands and scowls at the way the pallor of death has turned his flesh to chalk. 

Jongdae nods. ‘I’ll inform him. Should we allow volunteers for infiltration?’

‘No,’ Chanyeol says, sharply. ‘No volunteers.’

He’s slaughtered his way through history, and knows that any mole is usually the first to die. His men, his brothers, are too valuable at this moment to send off alone - especially when their blood supply has been reduced so significantly. He needs them all here, even his foot soldiers, their skills perfectly refined for war.

They all have gifts, many supernatural and many more simplistic, but none are as perceptive and human and unassuming as one he has witnessed three times across two days. Only one will be overlooked and underestimated, and now, for the first time, he’s glad to be inconvenienced. 

Yes, he thinks he will have use for the hero after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first foray into this fandom, so I do hope you enjoy your stay with me! <3  
> Song for this chapter: Dozo (Guns For Hire Mix) - Puscifer  
> This is also cross-posted from my tumblr: eradikeats-writes.tumblr.com  
> This should be updated on Sundays and hopefully I can stick to this schedule.


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